Bad Luck Bree REMASTERED
by Bad Luck Bree
Summary: A belligerent pirate lass and a cruel captain of legend. Swords and wills clash. DavyOC, with lotsa angst and love/hate.
1. Welcome tae the crew!

Chapter I

"Welcome tae the crew!"

No survivors.

Strange way to run things when collecting souls was one's job. But sometimes the blood lust had to be sated, or glutted. And the captain of the _Flying Dutchman_'s blood lust was sharper than ever, whetted to a savage keenness by a recent bout of moody reminiscence.

"Nothin' of interest, sir," came the harsh, gravelly voice of the bosun, his hideous head appearing over the railing as he addressed his captain, who was standing motionless on the quarter deck, looking across at the scuttled wreck before him. His crew had made quick work of the ship's population, sparing none. A pirate ship…normally the pirate vessels had a larger amount of men on them than merchants. The captain allowed a thin, sadistic smile to spread across his face. More men to kill.

But his bloody reverie was broken when he heard a shrill, wild howl coming from the wreck. He saw two of the _Dutchman'_s crewmembers struggling to grab hold of a small wet figure with little luck, as the slippery little thing seemed to wriggle away from them with fierce strength and agility spurred on by terror.

He would have continued watching this interesting little scene, but he was interrupted by his coxswain, Koleniko, who was, like the bosun, mutilated into a sort of half-man half-sea beast form, "Sir…request fer a pistol, sir. That li'l cabin boy is too quick fer us."

He quailed as the captain looked down at him, his vast beard of tentacles writhing in a calm sort of annoyance, his electric blue eyes boring right into him. A slight twitch of a smile on the great sea captain's face as he clenched the powerful claw of his left arm convulsively.

"Tae quick for ye, eh, Mister Koleniko? Tae quick? Weel, let's put an end tae that, shall we?"

Maccus had never wanted to bury his axe into someone's face more than he did now. This stupid little boy…hellfire, he was fast! He had come out towards the end of the battle from below, armed with a broadsword that seemed almost too big for him but which he handled skillfully and with great effect. Maccus had set upon the boy quickly, only to find him a cunning fighter.

Ogilvey, the other crewmember clambering after the boy, currently had the broadsword lodged firmly in his shoulder. The boy had thrust the blade straight through the monstrous boarder's shoulder, only to have it wrenched from his hands. Now he was dodging about the deck, desperate to escape but not daring to jump into the wildly storming sea and risk being smashed upon the rocks.

Another swivel on his heel, and the boy whirled straight into the arms of Maccus, who clamped the struggling prisoner close to his chest. A feral snarl, and the boy sank his teeth into Maccus' arm, who grunted in surprise and loosened his grip. Pushing away, the boy turned to run again…only to feel his throat caught in a grip of iron. Pressure was placed on his chin, and he was forced to look upwards…and nearly fainted with fear.

The face that stared down at him was one that he had come to know through tales of the great sea legends…but all tales he thought were only legends.

_Davy Jones!_

The sea captain smiled, tilting his head slightly as he surveyed the boy, now hanging helpless in his grasp. A long, wild mane of pale hair, streaked with sea-foam and blood, obscured a small, childish face. Two staring eyes, almost abnormally large and stormy blue ringed with gray, widened and looked away from his own, terror evident. The _Dutchman_'s captain was a bit taken aback by how young the face was, and how there was evidence of scars on the muddied cheeks and shoulders. And the shape of the face, the rounder quality of the chin and jaws, despite the hard lines of the Nordic race…

"D'ye like prolonging yer own doom, lad?" his voice, the heavy Scottish brogue harsh with the strange intonation, grated on the youth's ears, and he winced, but answered in a voice that attempted to sound brave while unable to hide the tremor of fear, "Go…go shove off!"

A harsh laugh that sounded like rogue waves crashing against cliff tops, "A brave one…tell me, lad…d'ye fear death?"

No answer, only a sharp kick from the lad as he swung his leg upwards into Jones' shin. He grunted slightly, dropping the boy to the bloodied deck. A mad scrambling, but he was pinned down by Maccus' foot. Jones narrowed his eyes at the miserable figure lying limply before him. He then noticed the slimness of the boy's waist, the smaller size of the shoulders, the slight slope of the chest.

"Ah…not a lad…"

The pale, frightened face tilted up to him, eyes widening with surprised fear at discovery. Maccus looked down at the prisoner now, his own eyes registering surprise, as well as disbelief, "Ye mean…a girl? Naw, cap'n, what would a girl be doin' here?"

Another struggle to get loose, but Jones stooped, lifting the limp figure to face level again. "Aye, Maccus, a girl. What she's doin' here, I cannae say. But I'm afraid we'll have tae sail off from here wi' a young lady's death on our conscience, eh?"

The blue eyes, still clouded with terror but sparking with a sudden desperate ferocity, met Jones' own cold depths. A baring of teeth, and a hoarse, shaky, "Go on, fishface! Do it, I dare ye! Go on!"

Jones lifted an eyebrow at her, slightly surprised by the spunk he sensed in this girl. Aye, she was afraid, terrified. But the impressive thing was that she was hiding it, or attempting to, and defying him nonetheless.

_A hard spirit…what fun to break it…_

Jones had no use for a female on board. But something about the fire in this whelp's eyes…he had an uncontrollable desire to quench those flames…perhaps because they reminded him so much of another flame that burned in a pair of eyes he had learned to hate over the centuries…yet this girl had a wilder, rougher sort of light. He tensed his lips, his grip tightening.

Why not? Why not have some fun?

_Why not crush her?_

Dropping her to the deck, Jones turned, passing an order to Maccus over his shoulder, "Lock 'er in the brig. I'll deal with 'er when we've set off." He smiled slightly as he heard the girl's feeble cry behind him.

Maccus looked across at Ogilvey (who was busy pulling the broadsword from his shoulder) and shrugged. He then stooped, grasping the girl by the shoulders and hauling her up. Her struggles had grown weak from blood loss and fear, but she still made an effort to resist. He looked at her disapprovingly, saying rather peevishly, "Wouldn't ye know it…when Cap'n lets us keep a woman aboard, she ends up bein' as ugly as a kelpie wi' a squashed snout." And with that, he and his mate bundled the girl over the side and to the _Dutchman_, not daring to voice their surprise at Jones' strange whim.

She didn't really feel the pain of her wounds. No, the dull throbbing and numbness of limb was nothing compared to the cold grip of steely fear that seemed to bind her heart with cruel bands.

She had never been lacking in vitality, the love for life, the crazed passion for seizing every moment of breath…but now she wished that she had died with the rest of the crew. For one thing, she was baffled at the strange choice to spare her. Out of the _Goresail_'s crew of strong, tough men, most hailing from Yorkshire or Northumberland, and a smattering of Scandinavian giants, she, a single girl, a milksop by comparison to the others, was spared. Why?

Perhaps Davy Jones (she shuddered to think of him, to think of having to look at him again!) had some remnant of gentility about him…perhaps he was reluctant to kill a woman, or in her case, a female. She was hardly a woman.

But these musings were cut short as the brig was suddenly flooded with a sickly green light, as if the thin filtering shafts from above had been tinged with St. Elmo's fire. Then a death-knell, the rhythmic sliding scrape followed by a hollow knock upon the slimed wood. She felt fear overcome her in a clot of toxic despair, so strong that she became slightly nauseous. But her pride, her absurd, Napoleonic pride, forced her to raise her head, the long thick column of her neck straight as was possible with a heavy wound across her shoulder, and set her grimed face into an expression of dauntlessness.

It was pitiful to see how quickly the formerly effective mask (often put to use by the girl when facing a particularly trying problem) dissolved into sheer terror. Somehow, she was more frightened of him now, even though she had seen him on the floating remnant of the _Goresail._ But then her head had been at an odd angle and a curtain of blood had obscured her vision. Now, as he stood before her in the wavering half-light of the brig, his broad shoulders and terrifying head filling the cell door, the only true color on him the searing icy blue of his terrible eyes, she found every description of him from any seaman's tale comical and ridiculously subdued.

As the light fell on his figure like some murky spotlight in a demonic stage play, she could see the writhing swarm of tentacles swaying lazily at her, almost mockingly. He was smiling, if that half twitch of the lips could be called a smile, and assessing her, nodding in what she almost took to be approval. She tried to mask her fear, to meet his eyes. She prided herself on her courage, her spunk, her fearless belligerence…but it fell flat on its face under such a hellish stare, cold as winter rain but burning into her very soul. She averted her eyes, unable to stop the strangled sob of fear from exiting her salt-scarred lips.

A strange guttural sound…no, that was laughter. She shivered again, wanting to withdraw into herself, to disappear, to die suddenly…anything but face this legend held equal with the Devil himself. But she was not granted any of these desires. Davy Jones' words cut the damp air, his deep Scottish brogue turned into something hideous by the quality of his voice, "Sae…what am I tae expect from ye, lass? Ye're crewin' a pirate vessel, carryin' a Highland sword an' dressed like ye forgot ye're noo a lad. I dinnae know what tae make of ye."

She didn't answer, obviously unable to control the wild tremor in her jaw but desperately attempting to mask it. Jones chuckled mirthlessly, stooping slightly and reaching out with his massive claw, clamping it around the girl's neck. She gave a strangled noise that passed for a sob of surprise, and Jones forced her to look up, enjoying the evident fear that shone from those wide eyes. He smiled again, feeling her shudder against his claw. He brought his face closer to hers, speaking in a low ultimatum.

"Young ones are ne'er keen on dyin'. I ken ye aren't either, eh?" She didn't need to answer the captain for him to know that what he said was true. He continued, "Bargain, lass. What say ye tae a hundred years aboard this craft, a hundred years atwixt ye an' whatever demons await ye for th' wicked life ye've led?"

She tried to swallow, and Jones watched in wicked amusement as her throat squeezed painfully in the grip of his claw. She then managed, in a voice cracked by the elements, "What…what…"

Jones leaned in closer, speaking slowly as if to an idiot, "Will ye serve, an' delay whatever punishment awaits ye in th' life that comes after?"

No answer. She seemed too stricken with horror. Jones wondered if he had made a mistake about her. Would she be this subdued? Should he just kill her? What use was a girl on a ship like this? Where was the spirit he had seen?

It was almost as if the girl sensed his thoughts. A defensive light came into her eyes, and her hackles rose. Jones saw her jaw tense, and he recognized the spark that flew to her cheeks.

"Ye're noo a coward like the others ye sailed with? Serve. Serve or meet their fate."

The girl then met his eyes steadily, the blue depths clouding suddenly. Serve this man? Man…he wasn't a man. He had killed all her mates, scuttled the _Goresail_ on those rocks…why should she serve him? She banished away tears as she remembered the grief that had broken on her when she saw Petros, so like a father to her, lying dead, horribly mangled by some hellish blade. The anger at the injustice, the mingling of sorrow and fear made her strong. Her brows lowered, her lip rose in a sort of snarl, and she growled out, "Go to hell!"

Jones snorted, releasing his grip on the girl, and she fell back clumsily into a sitting position. He shook his head at her, his tentacles waving jeeringly at her, "Brave words, lass. Will ye noo consider it? What hope have ye that the Judgers will be lenient tae ye?"

Now the girl spoke, her voice stronger. Jones was slightly taken aback by the feral quality of that voice. It was almost too deep to be feminine, but far too expressive to be male. He also recognized a Scottish tint, more of a northern accent, as if the girl were from the highlands, though it was tempered with clashing accents. A life at sea often muddled one's speaking tone. The wildness of her voice seemed to enhance her words.

"Why should I fear the afterlife? Ain't that better'n servin' a slug-faced murderin' gull-crap? Same as bein' pressed, ye horse-arsed-"

She was interrupted mid-sentence and slammed violently to the ground as the claw swung full-force into the side of her head. Stars burst in her vision, and she vaguely heard the monster's voice saying in a tone that might have been mistaken for acceptance, as if she had assured him of something, "I appreciate yer input, lass. An' moreso, I appreciate ye're spirit. Though it'll do ye no good here."

She could only lift her head slightly, gasping out in a broken voice, "Go ahead an' kill me, fish-face! I'd be nothing' but trouble to ye, an' I swear me oath on that!" She tried to struggle up, only to be grabbed about the neck again and dragged forcibly to her feet. She saw a blurry form that must have been Jones's head leering close to her. Then she was forced back to the wall, her vision clearing when Jones spoke, "Try, lass. I dare ye tae try."

Then the girl felt a cold, slimy touch on her arm. She gave a shudder as the captain's tentacles wound about her forearm like slimed eels, tightening suddenly once they reached her elbow, then drawing away with a sickening sucking noise. She groaned, looking down at her arm, marked by the suction cups of the tentacles.

"Welcome tae th' crew. May ye prove a better seaman than yer fool of a captain." Jones laughed cruelly, adding, "An' a better fighter than yer mates."

She stared dumbly at her arm for a moment, the meaning of his words not fully reaching her. Then her eyes seemed to turn a darker shade, and she slowly rotated her head upward to meet the eyes of her new captain. Hatred caused her pupils to dilate madly and her teeth to grind together. Her eyes lowered as if on instinct, and she saw the barnacle-crusted hilt of a broadsword, very similar to her own, hanging from the captain's belt. A mixture of horror, despair and pure rage seemed to possess her, and she acted on the burning impulse.

Giving out a strangled roar of fury, the girl sprang forward, her shoulder tilted and her head down. She slammed into Jones with such mad force that he was knocked back a full three paces. Leaping around the cell door and into the dimly lit expanse, the girl, her teeth bared and her eyes blazing with a blurring of wild terror and vengeful hatred, ran forward, grasping the sword hilt and tugging upwards violently. The blade came loose from the scabbard with a scraping hiss, and she quickly changed hands, bringing the sword back and then stabbing forward with a wild shriek.

The sword plunged into Jones's chest, going in all the way to the hilt, the point protruding from his back. The girl released the weapon, staggering backwards and panting, her eyes wild. Seconds that seemed like hours passed. Jones was simply standing there, looking dumbly down at the sword hilt. Then his face slowly rose, meeting the desperate and confused figure before him. He then lifted his good hand, grasping the sword hilt and pulling outwards.

The girl watched in agonizing horror as the blade came free with a sickening squelch. Jones smiled, smug but not amused, his eyes freezing her very marrow.

"I cannae say ye didnae try. But I'd advise ye tae try harder, whelp."

Her reaction was predictable. Horrified beyond words, she bolted forward, and Jones did nothing to stop her, simply turning with the same smug smile on his cruel face. He watched as she tore wildly up the hatchway to the main deck, then began to follow slowly and almost nonchalantly.

When he arrived on deck, he found the girl pinned down by the joint weight of Maccus and Angler, two of the heftier members of the crew. Only her head, shoulders and arms were visible (her arms were held down by Penrod, who had attempted to make himself useful) and her face bore a new bloodied scar. She was sobbing for breath, a pitiful figure of a female, her face crushed to the hard barnacle-crusted planking.

Jones limped to the prostrate figure, setting his bad leg down right beside the girl's head. She was too tired and afraid to react. He contemptuously pushed the girl's head to an uncomfortable angle that forced her to look at him. He knelt down slightly, raising a brow at her.

"Noo quite quick enough, Miss…" He tilted his head in a mocking sort of politeness.

She refused to meet his eyes, looking over his shoulder, but she answered, though the answer was barely discernable from the blood that clogged her mouth and dribbled onto the deck, along with her tears of pain and disappointed fear, "Bree…m'name's Bree…" Her head sank down again, exhausted. However, once the weight of the two crewmen was lifted from her back, she was pulled harshly up and half-dragged to the grating. She was lashed down, heard the sound of a whip being tested. The first stroke landed, and she gave a short gasp. Bree's vision began to leave again, and she felt her limbs growing weaker. The last thing she heard before she blacked out under the lash was Jones' voice, seemingly amplified over the deck as his simple statement became a threat, a threat that remained with Bree far longer than the scars of the whip.

"Well then, Miss Bree, ye've certainly chosen tae make things hard for yerself. Very…_very_ hard."


	2. Interlude

Chapter II

Interlude

Floggings last longer to the viewers than the actual victims…sometimes. To the crew of the _Flying Dutchman_ they didn't last long enough, but then that was because they enjoyed watching some poor bugger get the flesh ripped from his back. And it was even more enjoyable to see a sad whelp of a girl so treated.

Bree was cut down from the gratings, falling limp to the deck. Some might have though her weak, not being able to handle a dozen lashes. But the combined force of blood loss from her earlier wounds and the despair that filled her head with a purple fog had dulled her senses and taken her to a hellish world of pained lethargy.

She woke to a gentle drizzle misting over her bloodied back, finding herself lying facedown on the slime-crusted deck, seemingly as heeded as a sack of rubbish thrown into a corner. For a moment (oh, what a happy moment!) she forgot where she was. Then a jarring pain in her raw back and a harshly amused snarl calling out, "'Sblood, she's awake! 'Bout time, too, the lazy little turd."

She was hauled unceremoniously to her feet, staggering blindly to one side until a sharp kick to her hip forced her to totter in the opposite direction, blinded by weariness and fear. She raised an arm limply, holding it before her face as if to ward off a blow. It was sadly comical in the pathetic light it cast her in.

A pair of eyes, colorless save for the faded ring of opaque blue around an irregular blot of purple, watched from the protective shadow of the quarterdeck stairway. Tragic, that was what it was...tragic. The girl was a pitiful creature, to be sure, though he has seen her hold her own on the sloped deck of the wretched pirate vessel. But then even that was tragic. What had driven the child (and that was all she was; a child) to a life among men at sea?

The pale eyes observed the girl, noting the rough figure she cut. Dressed in ill-fitting clothes ineptly cut down to size and originally made for a boy, she looked disheveled and small. Her hair, though a pretty shade of blonde common in the Nordic races, hung in mussed braids, and wisps hung about her brow, temples and nape, snarled and bunched into salted strands.

Her face was more clearly visible now. She was an unfortunate specimen, ugly in face and form. The rough lines of her face, while retaining the slight hints of feminine delicacy, gave her a rather boyish look. If her eyes hadn't been of such an unnaturally large size and her lips not of a girlish pink she would have easily been mistaken for a lad. Similarly, her build was rather muscular for a female, and while she was of a smaller stature, she was solidly built with broad shoulders and thicker limbs. She was hardly a beauty; she was more a figure a man would cringe at.

But the observer wondered if a rough life at sea had done this to her. Aye, the ugliness of face was just an unfortunate deal of Fate's fickle hand, but the hardened strength came from the years of hard labor at sea. No girl was naturally built so.

The observation was cut short when Captain Jones appeared on deck, his sword placed firmly back in the sheath, but prominently displayed, as if to tempt the girl to try again (he seemed to get a sort of sick pleasure out of crushing her attempts). He limped almost jauntily to the girl, who had managed to get her balance and was now standing as straight as she could, though the wound across her neck and the pain in her freshly scarred back was causing a bow in her shoulders. Jones looked down at her, giving a half-laugh that sounded more akin to someone clearing their throat, "Well…I must say, ye handled the cat well enoo."

Bree didn't give any sign that she had heard him. She simply kept her head bowed, her rope-like hair hanging limply over her face. But then her hand moved slowly to her neck, grasping onto something beneath the collar of her sail-cloth shirt; a nervous gesture, perhaps?

"Noo what's thes?" Jones caught the girl's little wrist cruelly in his biting claw, pulling it away and examining the chain that hung about her neck. A small pendant was strung on the badly preserved chain, covered with a layer of thin sea-slime and discolored with time. But it was obviously a pretty little trinket, a medallion perhaps. No matter, it obviously meant something to the girl.

Bree's stoicism, or her simple lack of reaction, was changed instantly to horrified anger when Jones' good hand reached forward and ripped the medallion from about her neck, the chain biting horribly into her neck as it broke against her skin. But this pain was nothing to her when she saw the pathetic little jewel hanging in the grasp of that horrible monster.

Unable to separate her desperation and her hatred, she cried out a mating of a plea and a threat, "No, no, please don't! Don't take it, I'll - don't ye dare!" Her hands were clasped before her, her eyes wild and desperate.

Jones smirked at her obvious distress, waving the piece of jewelry mockingly at her, "Ach, it means sae much tae ye, Miss Bree? Surely ye're a generous soul tae mates who ain't so privileged tae own sich pretty things?"

Tears were forming in Bree's eyes as she felt her voice break into a whine, "Please…it was Mama's…it's all I got left, don't take it, please!"

Jones fingered the little medallion, sniffing primly at the cheapness of the thing. It was clearly of no material value. But still…

"I might as well take it off yer hands. Ye willnae be needin' it."

The change that came over the girl's face was instantaneous, but each stage of it was visible; from desperation to horror to despair to rage. She bared her teeth, tears blinding her as she hissed, "Ye cruel, murderous…" She couldn't even finish, too choked on her emotions of hate and anguish. But she finally managed, "I swear I'll kill ye!"

Jones' scornful laughter was accompanied by the sniggers of his crew. Aye, the girl's spunk was admirable, but entirely ludicrous.

"Ye've already tried an' failed, Miss Bree…beatin' a dead horse, eh?" He raised a brow at her, obviously enjoying watching the spittle flecking her bloodied face. What an ugly little creature…

"This horse ain't dead…an' I ain't done tryin'!" The girl's bravado was obviously forced…and yet there was a spark of true purpose in her eyes. She was a fighting spirit…those of her blood had the inbred instinct to fight. He should know. He had that blood in his own veins as well…or at least he had when he still had someone to defy.

Someone to defy…

_Every breath I take…every thought I think…it's all defiance…_

Banishing these sudden reminiscences, Jones turned away from the girl, casting a glance toward the members of the crew who were currently holystoning the deck. He hailed them, "Boys…leave off work for a moment." They looked up expectantly, eyes shining malignantly as they saw that cruel crease in their captain's smile.

Bree, still feeling slightly debilitated with bereavement, watched with a dumb look on her dirtied face. Jones looked over his shoulder at her briefly, his eyes narrowing sadistically as he spoke in a voice that was deadly calm, "We'll see how much this is really worth." And with that, he turned back to his men, tossing the little trinket at them.

A mad scramble ensued as the half-men began to grab savagely for the medallion, scratching, biting and throwing punches at one another as they grappled for it. Jimmylegs the bo'sun stepped into the melee almost casually, stooping down and snatching the medallion up from the claws of one of his mates. He pushed through the scrabbling mass of slime as he approached the tearful girl, leering cruelly at her and holding the necklace before her face, hissing in wicked glee, "Nice li'l trinket, girl. I s'pose this was one of yer mother's wages…shows how cheap she was. But then I guess when ye make a livin' on yer back-"

He didn't get any farther than this. Goaded onto reckless violence, especially by this jab at her mother's honor, Bree gave out an enraged scream and lunged forward, taking the bo'sun by surprise and knocking him down. She was astride him then, beating madly at his monstrous face with her clenched fists, screaming out obscenities with each blow. Each violent movement caused the fresh scars in her bloodied back to open wider, but the pain seemed a minor concern to her in her rage.

A savage blow to the side of her head threw Bree to the deck, freeing Jimmylegs, who struggled up, his eyes blazing with humiliated wrath as he advanced…but he was stopped as Jones stepped forward, grasping Bree by her throat. He hauled her up, squeezing her so hard that the girl started to vomit up blood.

Bree was then thrown to the deck again, a foot placed on her throat. A strange macabre pattern had begun to develop, she though vaguely, a pattern that involved her becoming very familiar with the ship's planking. She writhed weakly, blood loss causing her to feel faint and dizzy. She looked up with dim eyes at the sadistic captain. She bared her teeth, hissing, "Don't think ye've won!" Her defiance was admirable, but she cut a rather pitiful figure.

Jones hauled the girl up, growling at her, "Ye cannae win, missy. Ye're a defenseless maid, an' only by my protection can ye live!"

Bree laughed in his face at the absurdity of his claim, saying harshly, "So I'm to believe that ye'll protect me?"

Jones whirled her around to face the crew, "From _them_!"

"Ye can't hold me here! Ye ain't my captain! Ye can't keep me here agin my will, ye bas-"

"Oh, I assure ye, missy. I can. Wi'out me, the sea is nothing. Ye live in my world. Ye live by my rules. I can do what I like wi' ye."

"Why did ye even spare me? What use could ye have for someone like me?" Her face and voice registered genuine wonder at this, perhaps tempered with a wish that she had been killed. Oh, not a simple wish, a fierce desire for death!

Jones shook his head at her in mock pity, "Ah, th' lass cannae keep up wi' the men?"

He knew he had struck a nerve by the rage and absurd pride that flooded her ugly little face. She bared her teeth unpleasantly at him again, reducing herself to the appearance of some sort of scrawny wild cat, hideous in her feral behavior but pitiable (to a man with a heart, at least) in the extent of her terror…a terror she seemed to cope with through outright defiance, "I can outwork an' outfight any man here! I ain't afraid!"

It was then that Jones gave a full laugh, the first Bree had heard. It was a roar, a hoarse, unpleasant guffaw that seemed to trigger the crew to add their own grating laughter. Jones whirled her around, fiercely wrenching her shoulders in the process, forcing a cry of pain as her striped back protested sharply, and flung her into the knot of crewmen standing near the hatchway to the gundeck, yelling out in a voice that could have qualified as cheery, though a cruel sadistic cheer, "Well, lads, ye have yerselves a new mate!"

It was then that Bree's hellish 'initiation' into the crew of the _Flying Dutchman_ really began.

* * * * * * * * * * *

The crew lived in squalor that would have appalled even the vilest of sailors. Sea life seemed to be the true master of the ship, at least when it came to numbers. The hammocks (Bree almost wondered if they really slept on this ship) were mildewed beyond true recognition, hanging soggily in the half-light and smacking against one another when jostled with a sickening damp slapping sound. Dead seabirds and fish littered the floor, an assortment of feathers and bones moldering in every corner and sending up a rancid smell. No rats here, though. Even _they_ found these surroundings to be…undesirable.

But the filthy state of her prison was the least of Bree's concerns. She was knocked about quite harshly, already exhausted from the fight and her flogging and unable to strike back with much effect. It only brought laughter from the monsters she now had to call her mates. But soon this lack of response bored the men, and they let her alone.

Bree stumbled brokenly to a vacant hammock, climbing into it without a second thought, not even noticing when her body seemed to sink into an inch thick layer of sea slime and mold. She didn't even adjust her position, lying as she was, her limbs hanging limply from the hammock. Her breathing came in hoarse gasps, her mouth crusted with blood as she lingered in a miserable state between sleep and delirium, but finally overcome with her utter weariness, she surrendered to the blackness that surrounded her head, the raucous voices of the crew fading into the thumping tattoo of her pulse.

It might have been minutes or hours later that the music began. It wasn't so much the sound that brought Bree abruptly back to the waking world but the way it seemed to make the very planks of the ship tremble. However, once she heard the quality and nature of the noise, she felt awed astonishment take the place of her alarm.

_Music?_

Bree had been inside a church before and heard the unmistakable voice of a pipe organ. She had liked it then, playing its flowing harmonies, constantly complimenting its simple but powerful melodies with booming bass and wonderful intervals in the overcrowded treble staff. But she could not conjure up pleasure now. Organ music? Here? On a ship of damned souls?

One of the crew, a burly Cockney clam-faced hand named Clanker, noted her surprise and called over to her in amusement, "Wot's th' matter, girl? Ain't ye never heard the Devil play?"

Bree didn't respond immediately, too taken aback by his words. She looked up at the low ceiling, as if she hoped to see the source of music, then spoke in a subdued whisper, "Ye mean..._he's_ playin' that?" She hardly believed that a man as cruel and sadistic as Jones could have any sort of love for the tender things in the world such as music...and yet the power of the music, the dark, swelling wave-like dynamics, a constant cycle of crescendos, decrescendos, accented notes that hinted at a true passion for the work...it seemed to carry a quality as dark as he.

"Aye, an' ye'll hear plenny more...more'n ye'd like."

Bree was a great lover of music, being a naturally gifted musician herself. During her first years at sea, (miserable years, those were) she had managed to acquire an unusually advanced and refined knowledge of theory from a former court musician. She could read music to an extent (she valued this skill very highly, as she couldn't even spell her own name or read a page from the Bible) and had become quite accomplished on the violin, mostly playing jigs or hornpipes to accompany a pipe or uillean, though her repertoire included some more elegant pieces from Boccherini or Locatelli (which she played with a certain rustic flourish that excused her lack of true beauty of sound).

But this music that seemed to envelope her in a strange, almost suffocating embrace was unlike anything she had ever heard. It was not a piece she knew. It sounded a bit like improvisation, yet she could hear a recurring theme weaving each passionate variation together.

Do...Re Mi...Fa Sol...Ti La Sol...

It was undeniably beautiful and haunting, but the darkness, the pain, the obvious pouring out of emotion in the music...it chilled Bree's heart...and she hated it.

Her obvious discomfort was a cause for the crew's current state of amusement. They all seemed to forget that their own reactions to the music, so long ago when they had still been men, were very near hers. But now the booming requiem (and that was what it was - like a constant dirge, though not for a person...perhaps a soul?) had become a routine, even a source of annoyance.

Ignoring the scornful chuckles, Bree turned over in her hammock, wincing as the crust of sea-moss, now molded to her torso, tore at the raw scars on her back. She rested her cheek, which, had she been able to see it, was turning into one massive bruise of a wretched black color, on her forearm, shutting her eyes. Now she allowed the tears that had been held back for so long to come. She was too weary to weep fully in her despair, but the tears fell heavy and steady, tracing white lines in the muddy mask lining her cheeks. She finally fell asleep, still to the sound of that hellish organ.

She desperately hoped that she would not wake up tomorrow.


	3. First Day Assessment

Chapter III

First Day Assessment

Bree woke to a terrible burning all throughout her back, much more painful than the initial agony of the cat's tongue. She rolled onto her back gingerly, giving out pathetic moans in spite of her efforts to remain stoic. She had been beaten before, but she had never been truly flogged. And that bo'sun had no ordinary whip. It was a bullwhip, something you might see being used on a coach to drive the horses. And Jimmylegs had a strong arm.

Wondering if it was possible to mend the ragged shirt she wore, she ran her hand painfully along her back, feeling the long jagged tears of the whip. Though the torn material caused her a certain amount of annoyance, she was fiercely glad that they had not stripped her to the waist for the flogging. She knew no man would look at such an ugly thing lustfully, but Bree had an almost morbidly chaste sense of modesty.

It was only then that Bree realized how quiet it was. She was surprised, thinking that these monsters didn't sleep...but she could hear them breathing heavily, snoring damply in their hammocks, some of them quite close to Bree (the hammocks in a berth are always placed mere inches from one another). While some were snoring with stentorian volume, Bree still considered it relatively quiet. She was used to a hold full of sleeping men.

For a moment, Bree wondered at how she, having been so overcome with a stupor of weariness, had woken before the dawn. She could see the pale grey of moon and sun glow through the hatchway like an unflickering flame's shadow. But then, Bree had always been an early riser, and the pain in her back and the grumbling of her neglected stomach had overcome her weariness.

She was too groggy with her swoon-like sleep and her thoughts to feel any apprehension of what was to happen to her on this ship. The only thing that seemed to matter at this particular moment was satisfying the cravings of her empty stomach. _I wonder if they eat anything' that ain't still breathin'...hellfire, I wonder if'n they eat anythin' at all!_

She was understandably apprehensive about wandering the ship, risking encountering the watch or even the captain. But her stomach urged her on, growling rebelliously and making her head dizzy. Gingerly raising herself into a sitting position, Bree rubbed her pounding temples, looking about in the half-light of the gun deck.

Ugh…those slimed lumps, rising and falling irregularly with the swell of waves, were her crewmates. She flinched slightly as a roll of the ship caused one of the laden hammocks close to her own to smack dully against her. The occupant of this hammock, at least as far as she could tell in the dim light, had his face turned away from her. Hm…interesting.

Bree craned her neck slightly, wincing as the wound across it strained. The outline of the face was…well, more like a face. Aye, there was a substantial amount of sea life plastered on the drawn cheeks…but…

The figure shifted uneasily, pulling his moldy blanket over his head as if to shield himself from a bad dream. Bree, still a bit intrigued but too weary and hungry to continue her observation, lay back in her own hammock. She arched her back slightly as she plucked a stray sea urchin from her hip. Her stomach continued to complain loudly, but she was too afraid to leave her hammock. She didn't want to wake any of the crew.

Rolling onto her side, Bree sighed heavily, closing her eyes and trying to sleep. She figured she would need all the rest she could get.

* * * * * * * * *

The whip fell heavily across Bree's side, accompanied by the bo'sun's harsh wake-up call, "Out or down, ye lazy whelp! Out or down!"

Startled and dazed as she was, Bree, by habit, leaped from her hammock with all the grace of a lame duck, falling clumsily onto the deck. She sucked in her breath as a broken shard of barnacle sliced a long gash in her chin, but soon forgot this new pain as the bullwhip lashed across her shoulders again, followed by a harsh kick to the ribs.

Rolling away from the bullying Jimmylegs, Bree propped herself up on all fours, struggling to rise, her legs weak and her back and shoulders still aching with her wounds. The new whip marks didn't help matters either.

Jimmylegs flicked the whip out again, the end licking the girl's cheek as he hissed maliciously, "Best rouse yer lazy hide, missy, ye've a full day ahead of ye!"

Bree dodged another blow, holding up a grimy hand and growling in a mixture of anger and squashed dignity, "I'm up, if ye haven't noticed! Now gimme that whip an' let me teach ye how to use it properly!"

Her brave words were cut short by a little yelp of pain as Jimmylegs lashed the whip forward to cut deep into her shoulder, reopening the gash. The bo'sun smiled in sadistic pleasure, thoroughly enjoying the look of pained defiance on the girl's face. Aye, she had spirit…not that it would last any longer than anyone else's.

Despite the other crewmembers' obvious glee at this spectacle of torture, there was a general rush to formation, which Jones still insisted on, perhaps as a habit from his earlier sailing days. Bree was jostled as she managed to slip away from the bo'sun's seeking whip, finding herself between the crewmember called Clanker and another one, a Yorkshireman named Koleniko. She winced as her shoulder brushed against Koleniko's, his spiked growths pricking her torn skin. She simply drew her shoulders in, keeping her head down and pressing forward with the rest. Afraid and disheartened as she was…she was hungry.

Not that the galley yielded much to ease her stomach pains. A slab of some sort of meat, raw but sickeningly dry, and a hard substance that resembled pease pudding along with two woody hardtack biscuits. But she was cheered up considerably when she was issued a ration of grog.

Retreating to a solitary corner, Bree scraped a seat for herself in the sea mold and set to her vittles with an appetite, chewing vigorously at the grisly meat (she guessed that it was salted horse, rancid as it was) and downing the pease slop without a flinch. Perhaps if she hadn't been so hungry she wouldn't have been too keen on eating this filth. But it was better than starving. She slammed her first biscuit down on the deck, shattering it into smaller pieces. Selecting the least moldy of them, she began to suck on it, scraping off little bits with her teeth.

The second biscuit she tucked into her jerkin, in case she grew hungry later. Then she turned to her grog, taking a cautious sip. Some sort of seaweed juice with lime, watered down so much that the taste was hardly discernable. Not that the taste was too good anyway. But Bree was glad to have it. It warmed her bones and gave her some form of comfort.

Bree noticed that none of the crewmembers seemed to even remember that she was there, too intent on their vittles. It was hard to believe that anyone could become excited about this bilge fodder.

_Huh, I bet I'll start callin' this stuff ambrosia._

She took another pull at her grog, musing and wondering. Her fear was still there, hunkered down like a hibernating bear in her stomach, but the surreal quality of her new post…no, not _too_ surreal. The stinging pain in her back from Jimmylegs' whip reminded her of that.

As her thoughts turned to the bo'sun, Bree felt some of her rebelliousness return. She looked around, seeing him sitting amidst his cronies, laughing uproariously at some vulgar joke he had just told. She saw her mother's necklace hung about his thick, weed-strung neck, discolored further by contact with his slimed skin. Her brows lowered into an expression of dire hatred as she concentrated on his hideous face. She bit her tankard rim, grinding her teeth so hard that she left dents in the wooden container.

_I'll get 'im…I'll get 'im good._

She remembered her vow to Jones, her oath of vengeance. Well, that was silly. No man stood a chance against Davy Jones, so what hope did a slip of a girl have? But the bo'sun was a different matter. While he was undoubtedly stronger than Bree and most likely more of a match, the girl felt that a victory against him was more probable. At least to get her medallion back.

Letting her vengeful hatred fester a bit, Bree soon lost track of time. It was only when the crew began to stir from their mess that she realized it was time for the work to begin. Sighing resignedly, she rose, throwing her scraps into the corner. She was apprehensive, fearful of what this day would bring. She was unsure of herself. For a girl of her size, Bree was strong and capable of hard physical labor. But she had never worked under a lash before, nor amongst a mob of undead monsters led by a dreaded sea legend.

As she was straightening her jerkin about her shoulders, Bree noticed a movement on her arm. It was a small hermit crab, clinging doggedly to the rough sailcloth of her shirt. Bree didn't react for a moment. Sea creatures were constantly crawling over her, so much so that she no longer bothered to flick them away. But she paused to watch the little crab. It seemed perfectly content with its life. Not that a hermit crab has high expectations in life, but still, it struck Bree as odd.

Raising her arm to aid the crab in his climb, Bree pondered it. _Lucky little fella…livin' on this hellship an' doin' fine. _Of course he didn't have to worry about Jones or the bo'sun…unless he was stepped on.

The dogged attempts of the crab to climb up Bree's shoulder put a strange sort of hope, a childish hope, in Bree's faltering heart. She gave a thin, crooked smile. _I can beat Jones…I can do 'im in someday…somehow. I'll show 'im he can't break me. Bree can't be kept in a place she don't want t' be._

Bending her neck, Bree whispered to the crab as if confiding with an old friend, "Ye'll see…he'll try an' try to make me like the others. But I'll show 'im…I'll show 'im that there are still some souls strong enough to face 'im!"

_That _was revenge enough.

* * * * * * * * * *

Bree, having had no true education, did not have a very large vocabulary. But one slightly more advanced word she knew was 'respite.' Obviously no one on the _Flying Dutchman _recognized that word.

Bree's entire body was afire with pain before long, every muscle sore and tight with exertion. While she was stronger than most girls and even than some boys her size, she found the unrelenting work too much for her. No rest, no water, and constantly the crack of the whip and the maddening rhythm of Jones' pacing.

On the _Goresail_ Bree had been accustomed to hard labor and was capable of manual work, but she had mostly been at work in the rigging, her lighter weight and smaller frame an advantage to her. As a result, her hands were already well callused and hardened, and thus the hauling of the _Dutchman_'s slimed ropes did not affect her palms all that much, unless a clump of broken shell sliced into her fingers. But her shoulders, still plagued by the pain of her wound and flogging, throbbed with overwork, her torso stiff with weariness, her legs feeling like firebrands and her forearms stinging unbearably. Even her neck was giving her trouble, and her lower back was one large knot of agony.

She had attempted to rest for a few moments, dropping out of the hauling line and falling into a sitting position near the stairs, but Jimmylegs found her and began raining down blows from his whip on her. She was forced to rise shakily and resume work, her muscles protesting madly with each movement.

Her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth, clacking uselessly like a block of wood. No water. She wondered how she was not dead by now. Surely she was dehydrated? She had grown dizzy a few times, nearly falling to the deck and almost letting loose a tow line.

Yet while she was in bad shape, obviously worked beyond her capacity, the crewmembers were still impressed. She didn't complain, and she was obviously knowledgeable of this work, not needing instruction. Her muscles stood out like whipcords through the material of her shirt as she hauled away with the best of them, matching the rhythm of their song but unable to sing along from lack of breath and a cracked tongue.

"_Around Cape Horn we all must go,_

_Go down, ye blood red roses, go down._

_For that is where them whale-fish blow,_

_Go down, ye blood red roses, go down._

_Oh, ye pinks and posies,_

_Go down, ye blood red roses, go down."_

Bree marveled at the singing. She was familiar with the sea songs, and this, while being a whaler's chantey, was one of the more well-known tunes. But the cheerful ditty she knew was rendered as a mournful, dirge-like chant by the _Dutchman_'s crew, merely a cadence.

Bree continued hauling away, her shoulders screaming in pain, soaked with sweat and blood. She gritted her teeth, determined to push through. She had been given a certain amount of grief at the hands of the crew, but she had not received any attention from Jones so far. And of that she was _most_ glad.

* * * * * * * * * *

Jones hadn't made any efforts to confront the girl yet, content to watch her and see how well she fared in her work. He was forced to admit that the girl was indeed as strong a female he had ever seen, endowed with both physical strength and endurance of body and mind. Aye, he could see that she was flagging in her efforts, stumbling back and forth with weariness and pain…but what was impressive was her unrelenting spirit, her constant activity.

A grim smile. She was certainly a girl of spirit, Jones would give her that. But no spirit could hold out under his cruel cunning. He would break her. And he would savor each stage of her demise, savor it as if it were some exotic wine, meant to be sipped and enjoyed for as long as was possible.

Turning his attention away from Bree, Jones looked out over the waves. Last night had been sleepless again. He had been possessed by a frenzy of grieved reminiscence and broken rage, emotions that often led him to violence or creative genius. The massive organ in his stateroom had not been silent all night, part of the time playing a new composition, other times slipping back into that relentless melody that was so dear and yet so hateful to him.

His crew knew perfectly well the depth of Jones' pain, his lasting heartbreak and the desolation that still burned like the hole in his heavily scarred chest. But Jones kept his outbursts of passion and lovesick despair within the hallowed recesses of his cabin, his sanctum, a place no one dared enter, and a realm to which he rarely summoned crewmembers. Outside this dismal chamber he wore a mask of cruel satisfaction, a proud, powerful set expression of absolute power. He was captain. No one disputed the fact.

Giving his crew one last thorough glance, Jones retreated into his cabin, shutting the great wooden door firmly. He had no need of a lock. No one would be foolish enough to sneak in…and frankly no one wanted to.

Going to a desk beside his great pipe organ, Jones brushed away a few sheets of manuscript paper, scattering them onto the floor carelessly. Piddling little drabbles he had penned, nothing really. He turned his interest to the disorganized maps he kept on the desk, covered in a thick layer of dust and grime. The _Dutchman_'s lack of a true course of destination rendered these maps useless, and Jones rarely looked at them, unless he was simply indulging his lifelong interest in maps.

As he leafed through the crackled sheets of parchment, cursing under his breath as his claw sheared through one of the more delicate maps, he caught a glimpse of Bree's sword hanging from a peg on the wall. When Ogilvey had extracted the blade from his shoulder, he had attempted to keep it for himself, but Jones had soon relieved him of it (though Ogilvey kept assuring his captain that he had meant to hand it over all along, but it had "slipped mah meind, sahr"). It was a beautiful weapon, simple but elegant in its grace and make. Double hilted, the pommel was crowned with a dusky red stone, the same color of clotted blood, perhaps a garnet, and the handle bound with black leather, easy to grip. The crosstrees were of a solid metal, tarnished with use and exposure but nonetheless beautifully crafted. The blade was long and broad, a blood channel tracing all the way down to the keen point, the double-edged sides of the weapon sharp to the touch, apparently no stranger to the whet stone, suitable for both thrusting and slicing.

Jones rose, taking hold of the sword and lifting it from the peg. He tested it in his good hand, raising a brow. It was a bit lighter than most broadswords, but it was nonetheless a hefty blade. Jones would have had no difficulty fighting with such a blade single-handed. Indeed, the handle was that of a bastard sword, with space for one and a half hands. But the girl fought double-handed, unable to support the weight of the sword in one arm for too long. Still, she must be possessed of formidable strength to handle the clumsy blade skillfully. The thrust to Ogilvey's shoulder had been clean and swift, a testament to Bree's skill.

He inspected the blade closely. It was marked by old knicks on the edges, filed away slightly by constant whetting, obviously a sword well used to battle. He also noted the strange symbols etched along the blade's rib, barely discernable but present. He recognized them as ancient runes, probably of Nordic significance. He smiled. He wondered if this blade had been a sort of heirloom to the girl, or simply one of her spoils. Either way, she handled it well.

Jones had also noted the way the girl had been carrying herself in the early part of the morning. Her sword belt, a thick leather strap fastened across her chest from her shoulder to her hip, had been replaced, though the scabbard had as of yet not appeared. He had seen her once or twice reach her hand back before bending, as if to grasp onto the sword she was so used to bearing across her back, only to grasp at thin air and then look about self-consciously. She must have been the type that carried a weapon at all times.

Giving the sword one last experimental twirl, Jones nodded in satisfaction, returning it to the peg. Well, he wouldn't deprive her of it forever. If she was to be of any use to him, she needed a weapon. He would just wait until an opportunity came for her to prove she knew how to fight.


	4. More Like a Man

Chapter IV

More Like a Man

The slightest movement was painful. If she had been in pain beforehand, it was nothing compared to the fiery lump of stiffened agony her entire body had seemingly become. Bree had particularly stabbing pains in muscles she didn't even know she had, crawling slowly in the direction of the gun deck, actually looking forward to throwing herself into the mildewed canvas of her hammock.

However, a firm grip on her shoulder (her wounded shoulder, of course) caused her to stop and turn with a grimace. Maccus, his good eye squinting at her, spoke in his gravelly Border speech, "Not sah fast, miss. Ye're first for th' helm."

Bree actually gave out a little whine, her voice pathetically high as she protested, "That ain't decent! Ye 'spect me to believe this ship's actually got somewhere's to go?"

Maccus grinned cruelly at her, "Aye, an' ye said ye've some steersman experience." Bree opened her mouth to deny this, but knew it was no use. It was clear that the main purpose of a helmsman (most often Greenbeard, but he was granted the luxury of relief) was to keep the vessel from shore, and to head toward any sail that was spotted.

Unable to argue or protest any longer, and too weak and tired to fight, Bree resignedly touched a knuckle to her forehead, muttering, "Aye, I've some experience."

The look on Maccus' face as he walked past her made her want to grab the boarding axe from his belt and ram it into his groin.

Helm duty really wasn't all that bad. It was relatively quiet, just the calming lapping of waves against the ship's hull, the wind swaying the soggy canvas above, and an occasional call of an albatross. Bree had already gotten used to the rancid smell that permeated the entire ship, and the watch was only one man, changed every few hours (but he would always fall asleep anyway).

Bree just rested her hands on the helm, not turning it or even paying attention. There was no need, really. But she was surprised at the decision to give her first shift. She was, after all, a new, slightly rebellious recruit. Why should they trust her with steering the vessel?

_I doubt this ship'd take on so much as a drop o' extra water if I rammed 'er into some shoals._

But Bree's weariness and soreness of body was beginning to tell on her, as well as her increasing despair. The intense labor had distracted her mind from the fear and sorrow. Now, alone and able to think, it smote her like a load of cargo being dropped on her head.

As she tilted her head downward, Bree noticed a small bottle near her feet. Stooping with a grunt of pain, Bree retrieved it, taking an exploratory sip. Her heart rose absurdly. Rum! How this treasure had not already been hoarded away was a mystery, but she didn't question it, taking a long, deep swig. It warmed her thoroughly, and she soon became comfortably drowsy and her vision delightfully blurred. She looked vaguely toward the captain's cabin. No music tonight. Hopefully he stayed shut up in his demonic cloister. She didn't want to encounter him.

This was the last thing to enter her mind before the rum completely overpowered her senses. Clutching absently onto the helm for support, Bree let the bottle fall from her hand as she sat down with a bump, her head propped up against the helm as she fell into a drunken stupor.

Maccus had been watching from the shadow of the hatchway, waiting for an opportunity. When he saw the girl slip into a fainting sleep, he smiled grimly, ascending on deck with something clutched tightly in his hand - a heated brand. How he had managed to heat it was impossible to guess, but there it was, glowing harshly in the dim light, a black rod tipped with sharpened red. He approached the girl, readying the torture device.

But as he knelt slightly, reaching down with his free hand to tilt the girl's head back by her hair, the brand was knocked from his grip, falling dully to the deck and extinguishing with a hiss as it touched the damp wooden surface.

Maccus turned, his eye narrowed in disappointed fury…but his expression changed to one of grim amusement, "Sah, ye've decided te play the rebel again, eh? Suppose thes one's yer daughter?"

Two opaque eyes gazed back at him steadily, undaunted, as the figure spoke in a voice that was pleasantly rough but somber with purpose, "The girl's had a hard enough time, Maccus. Let 'er be. Ye're not makin' yerself any stronger by pickin' on a child."

Maccus sniffed, unconcerned, "Would ye prefar I let Jones know she's sleepin' on duty?"

The defiant face, more human than that of Maccus but crusted with a frame of sealife, did not change in its silent strength. Perhaps it was the very humanness of that face that seemed to unnerve Maccus in the end.

"Jones can't do any more to 'er. An' it seems to me she's the kind wot don't mind pain to keep her pride."

Maccus, unable to keep the colorless gaze for too long, shouldered past the figure, sneering, "I swear, Turner, ye're too soft-hearted to crew the _Dutchman_."

Ignoring the mate, Bootstrap Bill Turner knelt beside the slumped form of the girl, gently prying the bottle from her nerveless grasp. He removed his own cloak, a sodden, barnacle-crusted rag, but comforting nonetheless, and swathed it around Bree's limp shoulders. Bree, still asleep, shifted and clutched at the cloak, pulling it closer about her shoulders and sighing wearily.

Straightening, Bootstrap took a step back and surveyed the girl. He had spent some time observing her when she had first been pressed from his place beneath the stairs, mostly sizing her up as a physical specimen. Now he looked more intently at her face. Cruel, cruel fate. It was such a young face, innocent and yet weathered by the storms of life…but hardly a face suited to such a storm as this. That face would soon be mutilated into a grim mask of the sea's despair.

The girl shifted in her sleep, leaning her head at an angle on a fold in the cloak, her tongue peeping out between her scabbed lips in the form of a childish habit similar to sucking the thumb or kneading the sheets. Bootstrap sighed quietly, shaking off his own feeling of sadness, an emotion he had noted was dimming by the day. This alarmed him, as it signaled his descent into the oblivion that awaited all crewmen of the _Dutchman_. But while his humanity remained, he would put it to good use.

Alternating his glance from the girl to the captain's cabin, Bootstrap kept the girl's watch. He would wake her should the captain appear on deck. She had suffered enough at that cursed man's hands.

It wasn't a particularly good dream, but it was a dream that didn't involve her new wooden prison. And when she was brought back to the reality of this prison by a gentle whisper and a slight pressure to her shoulder, her response was ungracious and angered. Her vision was slightly blurred by the effects of the rum and her head reeled with a splitting headache, but she could vaguely see the shape of one of her mates kneeling down beside her. Filled with instant hatred and suspicion, Bree tried to back away, but the helm prevented her. She tried to fix the figure with her gaze, snarling in an attempt to hide her alarm.

But the figure simply stood, holding out a hand to her. Bree didn't respond or seem to register the gesture for a count of twenty-seven. Then she lifted her head slightly, her vision beginning to clear as her face reflected the surprise and confusion she felt. Shakily, she took the proffered hand (it felt like an actual hand! A bit slimy and pocked with tiny limpets, but a human hand) and allowed the strong arm to pull her up from her slumped position. She swayed unsteadily on her feet for a moment, but once her head cleared she found that she could stand.

"Sorry t' wake ye, miss, but it wouldn't do t' be found sleepin' at yer post. Yer relief should be comin' soon."

Startled by the pleasing sound and quality of the voice, Bree turned her head, wincing at the stiffness in her neck, and squinted. Her vision, cleared now by the cold sea air, focused on the strange crewmember's face and features.

Bree knew that her surprise showed on her face, but she wondered if this surprise stemmed from the man's unexpected kindness or his resemblance to…well…a _man._ He was more like a man than any crewmember she had yet seen, both in figure and spirit, judging by the kind nature of his eyes, eyes so pale that they were difficult to read but bright enough to show a cunning not yet beaten into obedience. She then recognized the drawn cheeks and hulking shoulders as those belonging to the figure in the hammock beside her.

"Who…who are ye?"

"Doesn't matter. I'd best get below afore someone finds out I woke ye."

And without another word, he turned and descended into the darkness of the gun deck. Bree stood slack jawed, rubbing absently at the newly scabbed blemish on her chin, a habit she had developed over the last few hours. She was touched at the kindness showed to her by this man…hellfire, he was the only true man on this ship. And she didn't even know his name.

As she steadied herself at the helm, Bree felt her headache clear. Her relief would come soon, just as her savior had said. She would be able to sleep then…if her mates allowed.

"Ye stand there starin' any longer an' yer eyeballs'll dry up." Clanker's hard tone jolted Bree from the minute-long daze she had gone into, and she skittered away from the helm. Not responding to Clanker's taunt or his look of amusement, Bree made her way unsteadily to the scuttle, kicking it aside weakly, cursing under her breath about 'that clam-faced bugger' before she gave a little squeak as she almost tumbled downwards.

Making her way shakily down to her hammock, Bree noted that her new friend was already back in his own hammock, though not asleep (feigning, but she noted that he seemed aware of her presence) and considered thanking him properly…but decided to wait. She was too tired to be truly grateful. So she simply climbed into her hammock, flinging herself down limply and dropping into a deep, oblivious sleep before she had settled into the grimy coating of her sea mattress.

Oblivion was a nice thing.

She woke earlier than the others again, not at all rested but alert - unpleasantly alert. Puzzled at this strange state of mental unease that conquered her physical weariness, Bree rose slightly from her position, wincing as a spasm of pain racked her body, and scanned the hammocks around her. Her eyes seemed to land of their own accord on the hideous form of Jimmylegs, his bullwhip curled up in his arms like a child's toy bear.

The dull little disc of her mother's necklace lay embedded in the slime on his monstrous neck. Bree bit at her fist, her eyes narrowing to slits of hatred. That necklace was all she had left of her mother. Yes, it was the same old story, the orphan with one feeble little reminder of her beloved parent, but it didn't matter how common this situation was. Bree wanted it back, and to see it in that…that _monster's_ possession seemed to defile the value it had for her. She wanted it back. She was going to get it back!

Slipping from her hammock and sidling through the small spaces between the hammocks, Bree approached Jimmylegs' head, pausing every once in a while if he shifted in his sleep. When she stood over him, she eased her hand to his neck, slipping one finger under the chain. Strangely, she wasn't frightened as she should have been. If Jimmylegs woke up he would set about beating her senseless without a qualm, but her mind was foggy enough and her rage roused enough that it didn't matter.

She was preparing to yank the necklace from the bo'sun when Clanker made a rather loud entrance to the hold. She leaped away, nearly falling over one of her mates before she flung herself into her hammock, face down as if asleep. It was a weak ruse, but Clanker was dull with weariness and didn't seem to notice, merely stumping to his hammock and heaving himself ponderously into the canvas.

Bree waited a few moments, then began to raise herself from her hammock again, only to see Jimmylegs stirring like some hideous sea snake writhing from its hole. She cursed under her breath, tightening a fist in frustration. It would have to wait.

He sat in his accustomed corner, away from the others. He was naturally a solitary man, and his time aboard the _Dutchman_ had only deepened his need for solitude. Sometimes when he felt in need of some form of fellowship, he would allow into his sphere those of the crew who were not as vile or cruel as the others, namely Clanker, Koleniko and the simple-minded islander Hadras. But today he was alone, not touching his vittles. He had gotten so used to being hungry that it seemed a shame to taunt his stomach.

His custom was to sit motionless, either watching those around him or simply staring at the slimed planking. His pale eyes, hooded and marked by long, silent suffering, were keener than one would think. But it was a keenness that resulted in an accuracy of assessing than observing. And he didn't have to watch her that carefully to know that she was looking for him. The wild mop of yellow hair, sadly tousled and forced into thick strands of rope, bobbed along with her young movements, slightly crippled with her weariness and moving stiffly with the soreness of her muscles, but nonetheless marked with the signs of restless energy.

When she caught sight of him and began to limp towards him, he did not indicate his awareness of her presence. He knew he didn't need to.

She sat down beside him, setting her tray and tankard down gently, as if afraid of startling him. She was silent for a count of ten, then spoke, her voice slightly hoarse with lack of use, "Sir, I, uh…I meant to thank you for…well…for what ye did."

He looked up at her, a faint hint of a smile on his worn mouth, "No need to, miss. I know ye'd do the same for anyone in that position."

Her face showed a mixture of pleasure and confusion as she waited another few moments before speaking again, "Well…I didn't think there'd be nary a soul wot'd care."

Leaning on the board, he gave her a full smile, limp as it was, and allowed himself to break his tradition of silent misery in conversation with her, "There's more'n ye'd think, miss…"

"Bree, sir. Just Bree."

"Bree, then. An' ye needn't call me sir. We're equals on this ship," he took the little hand stretched across the board to him, "Bill Turner. Bill to ye, or Bootstrap, if ye prefer."

Bree answered his grip by applying a pressure that caused Bootstrap Bill to wince slightly. She then tilted her head, "Well then, Bootstrap Bill…ye mind me askin', as an equal, why ye ain't like the others?"

Bootstrap liked the girl's inquisitive nature, a nature not given to concern for offense, not unlike the wide-eyed bursting curiosity he remembered in his young son, all those years ago. He gave another one of his half-grins, shrugging resignedly, "I s'pose I don't consider meself a true part o' this crew, though I'm here for th' eternal ride. How long have ye been lotted?" It was a painful question, one he hated asking and hated hearing the answer to. No one this young should face such a horror.

Bree mimicked his shrug, sniffing once as if to appear nonchalant, though Bootstrap could see the screen of pained fear she was trying so hard to conceal as she answered, "Dunno…never told me. Jones just gave me this an' 'weelcomed me tae th' crew,'" she gave a mocking rendition of the captain's accent as she bared her forearm to her new friend, allowing him to examine the pock-marked skin left by Jones' grip, "Ain't sure why, me bein' a girl."

Bootstrap made a hissing sound with his teeth, "So ye were pressed? Jones's been known t' do that at times. An' as for yer bein' a girl…ye've got spirit. He likes to break spirits. I guess 'e gets a sort of pleasure out of it."

The girl snorted harshly, rolling down her sleeve again, "Aye, I picked up on that. I'll wager I'm tae be 'is past teim." Bootstrap couldn't help a stifled chuckle at the girl's slip of accent. He had guessed at her homeland from the vague Scottish tint in her voice, but it became more apparent if she was angered or excited. The girl's eyes narrowed to wild slits of suspicion, but when she read the honest mirth in his sad face (if mirth could be found on this craft of Charon) she relaxed, even smiling herself and rubbing the back of her neck in an endearing sort of embarrassment.

"Where d'ye hail from, Bree?"

"Skye's my birth-home," she answered, shrugging again, wincing this time as her scar caught on a snag in her clothing, "But I was raised in Tortuga since I was a young'un. D'ye know it?"

Bootstrap nodded, leaning back slightly, "Aye, what honest God-fearin' pirate don't?"

Bree sat up straighter, forgetting her stiff muscles for the moment, "Pirate? Ye mean ye're a member of th' Brethren?" Her eyes shone with excitement. Bootstrap smiled again, nodding, "Aye, lass. Started out a merchantman…turned out a villain."

The girl tilted her head, "Which vessels did ye man?" Her interest and childish excitement seemed to open a spigot in Bootstrap from which his desire for true conversation poured forth. He sat up straighter again, leaning across the board, "Started a merchant on th' same ship I turned villain on. The _Black Pearl._"

Had her eyes gone any wider they would have fallen from her head. Her mouth was open as well, and it took her a while to snap it shut before speaking in an awed whisper, "Ye mean…ye sailed with Sparrow? Jack Sparrow?"  
"_Captain_ Jack Sparrow," Bootstrap added, not without a fair amount of pained reminiscence.

Bree's face resumed its look of wonder. But when she spoke again, her questions came tumbling out, "So ye knew 'im? An' Barbossa? An' ye went to th' Isla de Muerta with th' cursed gold? What about the mutiny, were ye there when it happened? Did ye get any of th' gold? Was there really a curse? What kinda curse was it? Ten years ago, weren't it? Have ye been here for ten years? What was it -"

Bootstrap raised his hand against the onslaught of questions, "One at a time, lass. I'm an old man, ain't got that much memory."

Bree fell silent, looking slightly bashful, but wriggling with curiosity and the desire to hear his tales. The old pirate took a moment to admire the girl's childlike face. Aye, she was no great beauty. Quite a rough-looking lass, what one would call ugly. But he found a certain charm in her demeanor, her spirit, her energy. It was hard not to like her straightaway.

"I'll tell ye all when we've more time, Bree. But fer now, I'll just give ye an abbreviated version. I was there for the mutiny, sure 'nuff. But I didn't hold with it. Sparrow an' I…we had ties. I was too fond of 'im to betray 'im, even though I was too late to help 'im. But I made sure he didn't go unavenged. And for that, I was sent overboard, strapped to a cannon. But the curse had already taken hold." He paused, his face going paler than the already greenish shade it normally carried as he remembered that hellish eternity on the ocean floor. Bree felt a shudder pass through her, even though she couldn't fathom the depth of his torture.

When he had gathered himself, Bootstrap continued, "Jones came across me then. Hellfire, I remember thinking' of 'im as a saint." He laughed bitterly, shaking his head, "He offered me relief from that watery limbo. Shoulda refused 'is offer."

He raised his eyes to the girl again, his mirthless laughter breaking off suddenly when he saw the look on her face. She had gone paler than he, her eyes wide and frightened despite her attempt to remain stoic. His talk had frightened her, put uncertainty into her frail little heart. He instantly regretted his choice of words. Trying to put on an encouraging smile, he reached across, taking hold of her hand. It was a rough hand, well-callused and strong…but still a little hand, a girl's hand.

"Ah, don't listen t' me, lass. Like they say…when there's life, there's hope."

Bree gave him a skeptical glance, "Ye call this life?" She seemed to take a moment to master something in her voice before continuing, rather darkly, "I'd rather be dead, rottin' at the bottom of the sea than serve Jones. He's as bad as a murderer the way he sneaks up on ships unawares!"

Bootstrap nodded in agreement. Bree then turned back to him, still curious, "I heard the curse was lifted a year or so ago. Did ye know? I also heard the Isla de Muerta sank beneath th' waves, along with all the gold."

The old sailor smiled slightly, a mixture of pride and pain on his worn face, "Aye. Jack an' my boy Will were the ones wot did it, too."

"Will? He yer son?"

"_Was_ my son. He's dead now." A pause, then he continued in a hoarse tone, "I have Jones to thank for that." He smiled bitterly, blinking away the sudden screen of blurring moistness from his eyes.

Bree, regretting her inquisitiveness now, was at a loss for words. She was struck with sympathy and filled with a fierce loyalty to this man. She liked him enough at the first…but this seemed to endear him to her. How much he must suffer! Putting her hand on his arm, she gave him a sympathetic smile, "I'm sorry…I didn't mean to bring up pain…"

As he patted her hand gently, his eyes kind but sad, Bree felt her heart also filled with renewed hatred for Jones. The cruel man! The cruel, heartless wretch of a man! No, he wasn't a man…he couldn't be a man!

In order to curb her mounting anger, Bree diverted both her and Bootstrap's mind with another question, "What about Jack?"

"Jack? Poor ould Sparrow…he didn't -"

Bootstrap was cut off as Jimmylegs stomped up to them, leering down at them with the usual cruel glint in his eyes. He seized Bree by her matted thicket of braided hair, grabbing her by the scruff with his other hand and twisting her around sharply, causing severe pain to the girl's scarred shoulder. She bit back a cry of pain, her resolve to rob the bo'sun of his fun overpowering her agony.

"Look lively, bilgerat! Time to get to work! No time fer idlers on this ship!"

Bree shook herself free, turning and spitting at Jimmylegs, her fists clenched, though she had no intention of attacking him. She wasn't strong enough yet, though she doubted she ever would be. A warning snap of his bullwhip caused her to turn hastily, skittering away from him and joining the crowd at the stairway.

As she pressed through the throng of moving slime, Bree cast a look over her shoulder. Bootstrap was coming behind slowly. He met her eyes and gave her a wan smile. She returned it, feeling her heart strengthened. He was her mate, now. Aye, so were these monsters…but he was her friend.

_That makes all th' difference in the world!_


	5. Cat and Mouse

Chapter V

Cat and Mouse

Old Haddy allowed himself a few moments of respite before he started to haul the struggling wildcat of a girl behind him, resting his bruised limbs and weary back. She was small, but she wriggled like an eel and fought like a tiger kit, biting and clawing in a frenzy. Not that it was any use against a tough old hand like Old Haddy, but it was tiring on the body, and frankly Old Haddy hadn't been prepared for such strength in such a small girl. But it was only a few more paces to the captain's cabin, and the door had been left ajar, as if Jones expected company. He shouldered the rope that bound the girl's waist and hands and began to pull her onward, grunting with exertion as she snarled and spat behind him, wildly clawing at the deck in an attempt to stay his efforts, her face bloodied and raging…but to no avail.

On the other side of the door, Jones stood with his back to it, arms crossed behind him. He looked taller in the dim light, and his eyes flashed grimly, with cruel glee and anticipation. He had been expecting this. The girl had been a hand for less than a full week before her attempt at escape. Not an unusual occurrence amongst some recruits…but Jones had looked forward to this event with sadistic eagerness. He had not encountered Bree directly since her branding, but now he would have her before him, alone. His game would begin. And he would enjoy every moment of it.

When the timid knock came, Jones signaled Old Haddy's entry with a harsh syllable that might have been a word, but he did not turn yet. The door creaked open damply, and a shaft of sunlight fell across the captain's back. The crewmember entered with the girl, who had ceased struggling when she heard the captain's voice, stricken with fear.

As she was pushed roughly into the room by a following crewmember, Bree fell heavily to her knees, tangled in her bonds and unable to maneuver her legs well. She took this moment to examine the stateroom with awe. The mere size of the room was astonishing. No captain had such an expanse as his sanctum, nor such a sparsely furnished quarter, though Bree saw (with a certain amount of satisfaction and misplaced amusement) the great organ at the far end of the chamber, vast columns of hollow coral rising from the elegantly carved body of the instrument.

But her attention was brought viciously back to the figure standing slightly to the left of her. Jones looked taller than she had remembered. The dim light of candles (ghostly, green candlelight) played across his monstrous shoulders, outlining his broad, powerful form in a sort of hellish glow. His beard of tentacles writhed lazily, his great claw relaxed, but ever ready to clamp shut. Bree shuddered, averting her eyes.

There was a good two minutes of utter silence, a lull where Jones was simply enjoying the agony of fear emanating from Bree, not to mention the unease coming from Old Haddy as he waited on his captain's word. When Jones finally spoke, Bree and Old Haddy both flinched.

"Sae…what's yer business?"

Old Haddy cleared his throat before replying, saluting even though Jones' back was turned, "The girl, sir…she tried to scarper, so she did. Came bleedin' close, too, but Maccus fetched 'er a smack." Bree shot a hate-laden glance at him, but she soon forgot her anger as the captain turned to face them, his eyes landing on her kneeling form. Her mouth went dry and her heart seemed to stop, a lump of ice in her chest. She looked away, ashamed of her obvious terror.

"Dismissed, sir. I'll deal wi' the lady." He said the word 'lady' with such a tone of mockery that even Old Haddy, who had once been considered a man of manners, winced. But he put a gnarled claw to his brow in way of salute and shuffled out of the cabin, closing the door behind him, casting the room into a dusky half-darkness.

Bree, still kneeling, didn't dare to move or speak. She heard Jones' bad leg scrape the planking as he neared her, arms akimbo as he surveyed her. Then she felt the rough touch of his claw as he pressed it against the fresh scars on her cheek, five ugly stripes thoughtfully given to her by Maccus. He smirked slightly, "That'll leave a mark, missy."

Bree, still not looking up, muttered brokenly but with a touch of fire, "D'ye think I care? I still look better'n you."

"A bit touchy, eh? Dinnae like yer face bloodied?"

The girl bristled, her head shooting up and her eyes meeting those of the captain as she spat back, "More reminders that I've got to kill ye!"

This prompted a harsh scornful laugh from Jones. He thrust the girl back roughly, shaking his head at her, "Sae ye've still got some fire in ye, lass. Wouldnae think less of any countrywoman." He noted with satisfaction the spark in the girl's face, the slight turn of her mouth. She resented their shared background, but there was nothing she could do about it. It was obvious enough. The hard Scottish temper, the distant kinship with the Berserkers, blazed strongly in both captain and crew girl.

When she did not respond to his comment, Jones pulled the organ bench closer to himself, sitting down heavily, easing his bad leg as he observed the girl. She was afraid, it was obvious. Her outburst had only served to make her more nervous, but there was still that defiant light in her eyes.

"Ye've guts, Miss Bree, I'll have tae give ye that…but ye've noo th' sense of an addled oyster tae try an' desert from here."

"Better an addled oyster than a crab-brained squid," Bree muttered under her breath, obviously not meaning for Jones to hear…but he did. He smiled condescendingly and stood, turning his back to the girl. Her eyes strayed to the hilt of his sword. She bit her lip…no…no, it was no use. She had seen that for herself.

It was awkward just standing there, awaiting the punishment she knew she would get for her attempted escape. Stupid of her to just act on an impulse like that. How could she expect to get away when all she did was bludgeon a few of her mates over the head with a belaying pin? She hadn't even made it over the side when they grabbed her. Now they would be watching her even closer.

Five minutes passed before Bree, assuming Jones had either forgotten about her or had wordlessly dismissed her, began to take a few steps backward, the fear returning stronger than her previous defiance.

"Stay where ye are, whelp."

If he had roared those words at her she wouldn't have been more frightened. In fact, the calmness of his voice set her limbs to quivering. She chewed at the scar on her lip, standing as still as if she had become rooted to the planking. Jones turned slowly, his watery blue eyes examining her. Bree wondered if she looked as small and helpless as she felt.

"How are yer mates treatin' ye?"

Bree blinked stupidly. No, he hadn't just asked that. Nothing civil could come from his mouth. But when she went over the collection of words that had come from his mouth several times, wondering their meaning, if he had slipped into some foreign language…no, he had really asked her how she was getting along.

Shaking off her dazed expression, Bree affected an air of scorn, raising an eyebrow, "Fit as a flea an' fat as a beetle. That eel ye've got for a bo'sun ain't much with a whip." _He can't hurt me! I'll show 'im!_

Jones seemed to muse on this bit of information, though truly the girl had played right into his hands. He masked a cruel smile, speaking in a mock helpful tone, "Weel, ye're kind tae offer 'im a chance tae practice. I'll not keep ye from yer friendly gesture." He caught Bree's arm in his biting grip before she had gotten a full three paces toward the door. Her struggles were pitiful against his vast strength, and she soon tired, allowing Jones to drag her to the door. But it was when he was opening the door that she cast a glance toward the great pipe organ one more time, by total chance…and saw her sword hanging from a peg.

_Her sword…her precious sword!_

She gave out a half-strangled shriek that took Jones by surprise. She pointed furiously, her teeth bared in helpless rage. Tracing her gaze, Jones saw the cause of her distress. He burst into cruel laughter, only to feel the girl's fist come in contact with his shoulder. It was a blow that would have done considerable damage on a mortal man, but Jones was merely forced to step back with his good leg to steady himself, though the force of the blow left a bit of a sting that surprised him. He looked down at the girl, who was readying her other fist, hissing out balefully, "That sword is mine! Give it back, ye slimy thief!"

Adopting an unimpressed expression (though secretly he was marveling at the girl's apparent strength) Jones clicked his tongue at her, "_Was_ yours, Miss Bree. Nae let's noo get side-tracked frae our purpose." And with that, he seized her by the scruff and flung the cabin door open. The crew had all been gathered in a knot near the door, and Penrod, skipping back a few paces in surprised fear, had been listening in and reporting back to his sniggering mates. Jones flung Bree into the cluster of seamen, calling out in a mock pitying voice, "Lads, I'm sorry tae inform ye that Miss Bree isnae pleased wi' her livin' accomodations here."

Cruel laughter rippled along the crew as Bree was forced into an uncomfortable sitting position with a bump. Jones continued, his eyes fixed on her grimy little face, "But, bein' the thoughtful young lady that she is-" a burst of guffaws "-she's volunteered tae give ye some sport!"

A roar of savage approval as Bree was seized roughly by the arms and dragged to the grating by Crash. She gritted her teeth as she was lashed to the cruel grate, hearing Jimmylegs cracking his whip in vicious anticipation. Twisting her head painfully around, she caught sight of Bootstrap. She was unable to make out his expression before her head was slammed back to its place. As Crash moved away from her and Jimmylegs readied the first swing, Jones sauntered almost cheerily to the other side of the grating so he could watch Bree's face.

The girl stared back at him, her strange eyes narrowed to slits of wild hatred. Her fear wasn't enough to stop her defiance or show of hatred. She concentrated all of that hatred into her stare, sending forth daggers of baleful fury at the sneering captain.

Jones smirked, lighting his pipe and drawing in a deep breath of the foul smoke. He had to admit, he was impressed. The girl wasn't crying out, though her face betrayed her agony. But as he looked at the fire in her eyes…he felt a slight pang. Those sparks of spirit so evident in her eyes…they were so much like the light in the other pair of eyes, those eyes he had adored. Calypso's spirit had been as wild as this girl's…and yet there was something different. This Bree girl had a rougher sort of nature. She wasn't a goddess of sea and wind. She was a simple girl, a child, a sea whelp. And yet there was an unmistakable strength in her eyes, limited though it was in her mortal state.

Jones sighed deeply, exhaling the smoke and averting his eyes from the girl's, not because her stare cowed him, but because it made him think on the past he tried so hard to erase.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Jimmylegs was exceedingly disappointed when the girl didn't cry out. She didn't even collapse to her knees when her bonds were cut. Aye, she was holding onto the gratings with trembling arms and her legs were limp as kelp strands, but she had managed to pull herself together and walk, slowly and stiffly, to the scuttle. And while she needed Bill Turner's help to descend the stairs, she managed to keep a stoic expression of grim oblivion on her face.

Of course when she reached her hammock, Bree, wrenching herself from Bootstrap's strong supportive grip, threw herself into it, burying her face in the mildewed canvas and exhaling violently with a smothered sob of agony. Bootstrap's face didn't show any emotion, but he ached inwardly for the poor lass. She was trying so hard to beat them all…to rob them of their cruel fun. She had done just that at the grating, not making a sound. But he could see that she was in worse shape than most would be after such a flogging.

Bree didn't make any move to stop Bootstrap as he lifted the ragged material of her shirt, baring her back. He viewed the deep wheals with a slight flash of pity, his jaw tensing at the work Jimmylegs had done. Some of the old scars had reopened and were bleeding anew, and some were beginning to ooze greenish-black pus.

The girl opened her eyes wearily, watching as Bootstrap dabbed a cloth in seawater, "What're ye doin'?"

"Hush, now," he soothed, touching her shoulder gently, "This is t' help yer wounds heal. Now this'll sting."

Bree bit down on her hammock's rope as the saltwater soaked into her fresh scars, stinging abominably. Bootstrap touched her shoulder again, "Hold fast, mate…it's just salt. It'll clean those stripes."

She was able to relax slightly, though the stinging was a constant discomfort, "What're ye doin' this for?"

A wry smile, "I thought we were mates, now."

Bree winced at a particularly sharp sting, "Aye…but can't ye get in trouble for helpin' me like this? I mean…with the crew."

Bootstrap chuckled mirthlessly, "Ain't much more they can do to me."

Bree folded her arms under her painfully, giving out a heavy sigh. Then, after a silence, she asked, "Where are the others? No one came down…"

"Still up on deck. Don't worry, mate, ye'll have a bit of time t' relax. You try an' take a snooze while these are soakin'. I'll wake ye should anyone come down."

Giving a small noise of appreciation, Bree tucked her head into the crook of one arm and promptly fell into a surprisingly relaxed sleep.

Bootstrap sat beside her hammock, shutting his own eyes wearily, but fully alert. On this ship, one didn't need sleep to recover. One just needed peace. And that poor lass wouldn't get any more than he did.

It wasn't too long before Bree was wakened by Bootstrap's gentle whisper, "They're comin', Bree. Best get up."

Rising stiffly and with much difficulty, Bree accepted her jerkin from Bootstrap, slipping it over her scarred shoulders with a slight grimace. Bootstrap assisted her in tying her sash about her waist, knotting it loosely so as not to aggravate her new scars. Smiling gratefully up at her friend, Bree moved into a corner, away from the crew as they filed into the cramped space, talking and laughing raucously.

Greenbeard was the first to spot the girl. He smirked, whispering something to his mate Ratlin and pointing. They both laughed cruelly, enjoying whatever the joke was. Bree's hackles rose at the sound, and she met Greenbeard's eyes in an attempt to be fearless…only to be slightly taken aback. Aye, there was malicious cruelty in those eyes, but…what was that? Surely it wasn't…

They were impressed.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Jones spent another sleepless night, but this time the toccatas and fugues were neglected. It wasn't so much an agony of memory that kept him awake, but a musing on the present. Something was uncannily familiar about that girl…something he didn't like. Aye, he didn't like the girl to start with. She was just an ugly little swab who happened to have a bit of spunk common in younger souls…but there was something else.

He couldn't forget that fire in her eyes, the fearless intensity with which she had fixed him during the flogging. He knew she was deathly afraid of him…but then that was what had prompted him to spare her in the first place. She was afraid…and yet nonetheless defied him! Only a fool would have no fear, and this girl wasn't that sort of fool.

Jones sighed heavily, his eyes traveling to the girl's sword, still hanging from its peg. He narrowed his eyes, something akin to disapproval in his glance. What was a girl doing living such a life anyhow? It wasn't right. Not that he cared, really, but…what made her so wild?

Had he truly examined his own emotions, he would have found that he was unconsciously comparing this girl to the woman he was still enslaved to. Calypso…unfaithful, cruel, but still his obsession, his only attachment. He prided himself on loving this wild creature, this magnificent woman, a woman unmatched in spirit.

But then here was this girl. He felt threatened, almost on behalf of Calypso, by the obvious strength and feral aspect of the child. Something so unattainably savage was in this little sailor girl…something Jones feared was stronger than Calypso.

Yet a comfort was always there. Though each thought of it pained him, Jones knew he hadn't ever tamed Calypso. It would have broken his heart, carved out as it was, to see her tamed by anyone. But he could break this girl. She was mortal, weak in her own ways, a still a child. He would break her.

Looking away from the sword, Jones' gaze traveled to the small music box sitting near his inkwells. Tear shrouds misted his eyes as he whispered hoarsely, addressing the object for his sorrow, resentment and undying adoration, "She willnae conquer you, Calypso…"


	6. A Horror Realized

A/N: I wonder if I should delete the old version...

Chapter VI

A Horror Realized

Bree surprised everyone including herself when she was hard at work the next day. Her back ached abominably with the new scars, and each movement threatened to reopen the long wheals, but she pressed on, determined to show everyone, and especially Jones, that she could cope with this. She wouldn't be beaten so easily.

Easier said than done. Jimmylegs found a certain pleasure in striking at Bree's tender back with a knotted rope's end, watching her arch her body in silent agony, biting her lips until they bled to keep from crying out. She had to keep a strong face, no matter how much agony she was in.

When Bree was able to snatch a few moments of respite, hidden near the foc'sle, she slumped into a limp heap, wondering if her limbs were still attached to her body. She was too weary to realize that the strange, animal-like groans she heard close by were coming from her own mouth, and that the stinging dampness upon her cheeks was from her own tears. She could do nothing but lay prostrate on the deck, sobbing in sheer agony, unable to stop herself.

Bree believed in a God, being brought up a good Protestant, even in Tortuga and a smaller, Catholic Scottish family, so it must have been by the grace of this God that the only one to see her in such a pathetic state was Bootstrap. He simply stood watching her for a moment, a blank expression on his beaten face. Then he walked forward, kneeling slightly and placing a hand on Bree's less scarred shoulder, whispering in a voice that sounded harsh but was obviously of good intent, "Stop yer cryin', Bree. Ye're tougher'n that. A drink of water an' ye'll be back to haulin'."

Bree raised her head, looking up at her friend with bleary eyes, opening her mouth to protest. She was silenced by the beaker Bootstrap pressed to her lips. Cool, clean water trickled across her tongue, and in that moment she went into a strange ecstasy. Never had anything been so delicious as that one drop of water. And then more came, gently poured into her mouth as Bootstrap angled the beaker towards her. Bree began to suck at the beaker, trying to draw in as much water as she could hold, but Bootstrap pulled the water away, cautioning her, "Avast, mate, not so fast or ye'll make yerself sick. Drink slow an' easy like. It ain't goin' away."

The girl took his advice, taking small sips of the beaker and letting the reviving liquid roll about her dried-out mouth, giving out small mews of pleasure. When she had emptied the vessel, she smacked her lips painfully, looking up at Bootstrap with an expression of wonder and gratitude, "Thank ye, mate…but where did ye get water?"

Bootstrap smiled, producing a small cask and refilling the beaker. He handed it back to the girl, who again drained it in small gulps, "Rainwater I've been collectin' and keepin' safe an' fresh in a special place. I save it for emergencies like this. Many a crewmember's wanted to find out where it is, but it's best to keep it from 'em."

He was obliged to refill Bree's cup three or four more times before she was completely revived, and then the girl lay back for a moment, a small, thin smile of contentment on her bruised little face. Bootstrap couldn't help a smile himself, sad and burdened as his heart was. This was a true survivor, one who could find pleasure in something as simple as a cup of water.

For a moment, Bootstrap thought Bree was asleep, and he was about to shake her when she opened her eyes (they weren't as filmed over now) and spoke in a stronger voice, "I think I'm ready to go back t' work."

* * * * * * * * * *

As has already been mentioned, Bree's small size and natural agility landed her with the duty of working amongst the rigging. And when Jimmylegs pried from her the information that she was also handy with a needle and thread, she was sent to mend a tear in one of the sails. Of course the normal procedure was to bring the damaged sail down for the repairs. But Jimmylegs decided it would be more beneficial to his amusement if Bree were sent up to the sail with supplies, and not even a rope to steady her.

Bree's back had now become a dull throbbing pain that she scarcely noticed anymore. But her arms were still ablaze with pain, and it took every ounce of her strength to pull herself up to the damaged sail, the royal. She perched wearily on the spar, regaining her breath and strength and viewing the sail with a mixture of disgust and amusement. The sail was riddled with holes, as was every piece of canvas on this bloody ship. The sail was so heavily caked with algae and sea-mire that it was a wonder the wind even moved it. Jimmylegs obviously just wanted to see Bree tempt death. Well, fine. Maybe an obliging seagull would come by and carry her away from here.

A veteran of the rigging world, Bree was not deterred by the height. Indeed, she was very careful and aware of each movement she made, and the lack of proper security frightened her, but the sensation of swaying with each movement of the wind did not unsettle her.

The crew continued their work below, looking like little ants upon a pavement of matchsticks. But they were all looking up every now and then, smiling and cracking jokes with one another, speculating whether she would fall or just get caught in the rigging. Jimmylegs especially was enjoying the spectacle, watching the girl move slowly, going about the business of mending the sail.

And Captain Jones was enjoying it as well. He was standing near the bulkhead, his eyes slanted upward to view the small speck that was the new recruit. His eyesight was good, and even from such a great distance he could see her face. The five claw-marks on her cheek were bright crimson from exertion as she straddled the spar, leaning down and hooking a needle into the slippery canvas. It had to be admitted that the girl had considerable strength, hanging down with only her legs to hold her steady. But even with her nose screwed up in concentration, Jones could see she was frightened.

And then Bree slanted her eyes to the side to check the direction of the wind…only to see the captain, small and far away yet instantly recognizable, staring right back at her. It wasn't so much the sudden sight of him that startled her, but the feeling that he was looking straight into her eyes. It was as if his hideous face had suddenly appeared right before hers, as if he was reading every thought in her head.

Distracted, the girl shifted her leg, trying to switch her position in order to escape the unnerving gaze. But the slippery canvas betrayed her, and she slid from the spar, her body twisting painfully as her hand snagged in a nearby line. Bree gave a cry of fear that turned to one of pain as her shoulder was jarred by the line. She hung there for a moment, one leg reaching out to steady herself on another spar. Thinking herself secure, Bree allowed herself a moment to recover her composure, then set about untying her hand, her feet still firmly planted. She freed her arm with a yank, causing her feet to slide on the mossy timber of the spar. With a cry of dismay, she fell backwards, her chest striking the spar hard as she tried to grab onto it. But she was lost.

With a hoarse shriek Bree fell through the air, trying madly to grab at anything to stop her descent. But to no avail. Her scream was cut short as she was slammed into deck, the sound of Bootstrap's cry and the crew's consternation covered by a sickening crunch.

Silence reigned for a moment. No one knew what to do. The girl lay still, her body twisted in an unnatural position, her neck slanted at an odd angle. Her spine had snapped in three different places.

Jones was the only one who hadn't reacted to Bree's fall, save for a small, cruel smile. He viewed her broken body with an expression of vague interest, then motioned to Koleniko, his coxswain. The crewman came forward, looking slightly dazed. Jones couldn't help a snort of derision. Some of these men were still human at heart, no matter how hardened they appeared to be.

Jones gestured toward the girl, indicating her with an almost amused air, "Pick her up an' take her tae th' gundeck. She'll nae be any use tae anyone lyin' there."

Koleniko gave a shaky salute and went to limp body of the girl. He stood looking down at her for a moment, turning a bit pale at the sight of the rib poking out through the girl's jerkin and the blood on her lips, but he bent, scooping her up as if she weighed no more than a small sack of flour. He then turned, heading to the scuttle, only to be met by Bootstrap who, regardless of whether or not he was allowed, insisted on taking the girl himself and staying with her. Jones shrugged his broad shoulders in a careless assent, still smiling cruelly.

_So the game begins._

* * * * * * * * * *

Pain. Worse pain than before. Bree felt resignation come over her. She must be in Hell now. That was what happened to pirates after they died, and though she considered herself a good Christian, she was still a villain by trade. Well, maybe Hell wouldn't be so bad…there was someone whispering her name and urging her to stay still, to relax, that it would soon be all right.

Devils were putting coals to her back. Her spine was afire with pain. It seemed to be wriggling up against her back muscles, snapping into position, vertebraes rubbing together and rips shifting inside her torso. Did they put a live serpent down her throat? That was something they did in Hell, right?

"It's all right…it's all right, nearly done now…"

Funny, that demon sounded a lot like…

Bree opened her eyes, finding that she was not in a sumptuous pit, not even in a flame-infested cave or a massive cavern filled with boiling pitch. She was lying in a canvas hammock, face down, with her head turned sideways. Bootstrap's own countenance hovered before her, concern showing vaguely in his watery eyes. When he saw she was conscious, he breathed a sigh of relief, smiling thinly, "Good, ye're awake. Thought ye might've stayed in that death-sleep forever."

Bree blinked several times, confused. Surely she was dead…she had fallen from the topmost sails, had landed on her back, had died instantly. Or had that been a dream? She tried to raise herself, only to fall back flat with a cry of pain. Her back continued to convulse, her spine seeming to curve and then straighten. An audible snap was heard, and then the strange movements in her body ceased. She now noticed that her arms and legs were lying limply, and when she tried to lift them, they did not respond. It took a moment before a sensation of fiery pain shot through her limbs, and she suddenly found that she had mastery over them again.

"What…'appened?"

Bootstrap smiled ruefully, "Don't remember? Ye fell -"

Bree interrupted him, "But I ain't dead…"

Bootstrap sobered, "No…no ye ain't. That's what bein' part o' this crew means."

For a moment he thought that the girl had gone into another coma, from the frozen look on her face. Her expression remained fixed and blank for a good five minutes. Then he saw her eyebrows lower, her eyes fill with a sudden rage and terror, fixed on the scarring around her forearm, the mark Jones had given her on her capture. Oh yes…he remembered that horrible sensation, that hideous realization. The realization that you were no longer among the living, but not yet among the dead.

But no one had yet reacted to this horror as Bree now did. She was suddenly filled with fierce energy, and she sprang from the hammock, her body contorted with pain and the trauma she had just undergone. Her spine, newly healed, seemed to buckle, but she pulled herself erect and tore up the stairs to the deck, giving out a strangled snarl of broken rage.

Bootstrap was up and after her in an instant, calling out frantically, "No, Bree, don't ye dare! Come back!"

But Bree was beyond reason. She raged like a rabid bear across the deck, ignoring the gaping crew, and threw herself at the door to the captain's cabin. She seemed to be trying to rend the door down, clawing, pounding, kicking, even gnawing at the wood in savage fury. No one moved to stop her, not even Jimmylegs, who simply stood, stunned and completely taken aback by the image of the girl. She was rabid, her teeth champing up a froth, her eyes blazing with a mixture of terror, sorrow and unbearable anger.

The door to the cabin opened slowly, and Jones stood in the doorway, his expression calm and completely unmoved as he surveyed the wild image of the girl before him. Instead of throwing herself at him in a furious attack as the crew expected her to do, Bree stood chattering in impotent rage, glaring up at Jones with such an expression of hate in her ugly little face that Jones hardly recognized her. But he spoke in a tone that was almost lazy, "Weel? What are ye scratchin' the door for?"

Bree was still speechless, and seemed to garble on her own hatred for a moment. But then she threw back her head, opened her mouth and let out a scream that lasted for a full count of thirty. Several crewmen, including Bootstrap, covered their ears in horror. It was a scream that seemed nonhuman, unnaturally shrill and wild, yet filled with so much emotion that it couldn't be anything other than human.

Jones' face only showed a flash of bewilderment at the scream. He had only heard such a scream once before…and it had come from his own mouth, all those centuries ago.

Bree's tongue was loosened, and as she brought her head down, her face turned up to Jones, she began roaring out every obscenity available to her, spewing forth curses and foul expletives that caused even the most hardened crewmember to look shocked. Bootstrap had his hands over his eyes, feeling a few tears dampening his fingers. The girl was lost. She was lost.

Bree's voice continued to ring out, wildly hoarse and filled with hatred but strong, each word heard by the entire crew, her Scottish accent becoming more pronounced in her passion, "Ye're a mosnter! A monster! Hell is too good for you, th' Devil'd turn ye oot frae disgust, God curses th' day He made ye!"

Jones was so far untouched by her torrent of abuse, partly because he didn't give a shilling for her opinion and partly because he agreed with some of her words. But then came a blow.

"Ye're noo human, ye never were! What mother could love a son like you? Mother, ye didnae _have_ a mother! Ye dinnae have a soul, a heart, ye dinnae have feelings! I'm bettin' that yer chest is hollow as a gambler's pocket!"

It wasn't so much the implication that he was not human that enraged Jones, for that he already knew…oh, he knew it too well. How often had he seen a brief glimpse of his hideous face in a reflection and felt that horrible emotion of shame…how often had his leg, crippled into a crab's hard leg, ached with pain…how often had the scar across his chest, deep and as long as a child's arm, burned with old agony…how often had the hole in his chest, where his heart had once been, seemed to freeze with emotions that were supposed to be muted and killed? How often had he been reminded that he was no longer human?

But it was the girl's accusation that he had never known what it was like to be human. That he had never felt pain, or happiness, or grief…or love. _No one _had known love like he had! No one had known such pain as he! Not even this girl, who seemed broken by suffering. Even she did not know the pain he had suffered.

It was as if Bree saw the affect of her words on Jones. Her wild torrent of abuse ceased, and she stood, her chest heaving, her face contorted with rage, her eyes burning up at Jones. He stared back at her, feeling all his former amusement fade away. It was soon replaced by a hatred that equaled her own. This girl, this stupid, ugly little girl, had touched a nerve that no one had dared to strike at for over three hundred years.

It took a moment for Jones to collect his thoughts. He was battling between the desire to beat the girl until she was an unrecognizable lump, or to frustrate her with his silence. But he could not resist and response. He leaned down slightly, his face fractions from the girl's. He could see terror plainly in her eyes, but the wildness of her spirit would not let her go unheard. He bared his teeth at her, hissing out in a voice that only she could hear, but a voice so filled with malice and evident feeling, that the girl took a step back.

"Ye know _nothing_ of feelings."

And he retreated to his cabin, slamming the door. It wasn't long before the furious poundingof the great organ, like a dying heartbeat, sounded all about the ship.


	7. Trial by Ordeal

A/N: Hi…yeah, it's been a while since I updated anything. College is kind of my first priority, y'know, education and all that, degree and job options and my future and that stuff…BUT I'M NOT ABANDONING FANFICTION. Heck no.

Chapter VII

Trial by Ordeal

Ogilvey couldn't be cross with anyone today, and Bree, while still despised by all the crew, was a crewmate as well as a fellow Scot. The Highlander gunner, his single eye shining dully, clapped the girl's back heartily as he passed her to the gun deck. The lookout's cry of "Sail ho!" and Jones' subsequent orders to clear for action had improved everyone's mood, but mostly that of the head gunner. Bree, slightly dazed at first by the sudden flurry of activity, was soon stirred to life by the familiar orders preceding a ship battle. However, as she began making her way along with the rest of the crew to descend to the gun deck, she felt a painful jerk at her elbow. Palifico, Jones' personal bodyguard and second mate, had seized hold of her arm with his harsh claws, tugging her backward with as much ceremony as he would show a delinquent sheep about to walk off a cliff. He shook his head at the girl, hissing through his anemone-shaped mouth, "Not you, miss. Ye're to stay above." The way he said 'miss' made Bree's hackles rise defensively. But she complied, slightly relieved. As fond as she was of a little bit of action, she had never gotten used to that suffocating sensation in an active gun deck. But when she saw where Palifico was taking her…she felt suffocated anyway, but this time by fear. Jones stood in his customary place on the quarter deck, looking for all the world like a statue of sea rock, carved by savage strokes of lightning into a rude likeness of a humanoid sea beast. He was smoking his pipe again, his claw behind his back, clutching something. Bree put her weight into her heels, pulling against Palifico's grip, but he was much stronger than her and simply manhandled her up the stairs, shoving her in front of Jones, who didn't so much as look at her for a full five minutes. Bree simply stood there, her eyes cast down, putting all her energy into observing the toes of her ragged boots. She had begun to count how many limpets had accumulated there, then began to wonder what a limpet without its shell would look like, then wondered if there was anything inside that shell, and if so what purpose it served to stick to things all the time as if there was nothing to see outside one's shell…when her wandering mind was brought back to the present (and the world outside limpets) by Jones' harsh voice. "What say ye tae provin' yerself wi' a blade?" Bree, still not meeting his eyes but rubbing at the brand-like marks on her arm, mumbled something unintelligible, not sure what to think. Jones bent down, blowing some foul-smelling smoke into the girl's face. She coughed violently, turning her face away and feeling her entire body, still afire with fatigue and the weakness of her horrific fall, contract with the agony of the effort to cough. Jones smiled in satisfaction, then, when she had stopped hacking out the remains of the smoke in her lungs, spoke again, "When I give the order tae board that craft…will ye take part?" The girl finally looked up, her eyes watery from the stinging smoke and lack of sleep. Jones was pleased to see that the spark had been considerably dimmed since their last encounter. But then that was why she was so apprehensive now. He had not approached her since the fierce blow to his personal remembrances. Everyone had been well aware that the lass had struck a nerve in the captain, though no one was truly sure what, least of all the one who had delivered the blow. But Jones was not yet done with the girl. He still planned on breaking that spirit…and he would break it hard. Still waiting for an answer and not getting one from Bree, Jones brought his claw forward from behind his back, offering the girl's sword to her with a careless air, as though he were giving her a pamphlet. Bree's red-rimmed eyes widened with surprised delight, and she took hold of the sword with alacrity, breathing out hoarsely and without thinking, "Th…thank ye, sir!" Jones smiled, but not at all benignly. He simply growled down at the girl, still enamored with her newly recovered blade, "Just prove tae me ye know how tae use it…an' dinnae even dare tryin' anything. I'll be watchin' ye." Bree lifted her eyes to him, seemingly charged with new energy now that she held her precious weapon as she snarled out, "Ye think I've got anyplace t' go?" And with that, she replaced the broadsword in the sheath across her back, retreating a few steps to await orders. Jones followed her with his eyes for a moment, feeling something akin to approval. He had seen that savage glint in her eye. Well…he'd wait and see.

It was almost pathetic to see the little merchant vessel as her crew fought valiantly against the Flying Dutchman. But they were outmanned, outgunned, and finally outdone. It had only taken Ogilvey two well placed shots, one to blow the rudder clear away, and one to snap the mainmast like a piece of brittle straw. Completely helpless, the little merchant vessel heeled crazily to one side, almost swiping across the Dutchman before she settled, righted herself, and then tipped forward, as if falling to her knees. It was at this point that Jones gave the order to board. Having given the eagerly anticipated order, Jones turned to observe Bree's actions. He had a preconceived idea that she would be cautious about her approach, being well aware of her weakness and her disadvantage of size and gender. He didn't doubt the girl's mettle (even if he expected to break it) but he anticipated prudence as well. So he was quite taken aback to see the girl, sword out and brandished, spring from her place and literally leap towards the crippled vessel. She hadn't even waited to receive a grapnel, as the gap between the vessels was close enough to ford with a strong jump. The savage light in her eyes, reckless and feral as a raging wildcat, was enough to assure Jones that she was one of those fighters who lost all reason at the mere scent of blood. Being such a combatant himself, it did not shock him…though it surprised him in so small a girl. To see Bree alight on the merchant vessel, her Highland broadsword held out in a straight line before her and her vicious, ugly little face transformed into a mask of wicked glee, one would have thought her an imp sent to inflict plague on someone. Something unpleasant had taken hold of her in the heat of battle…something called human nature. But even when gripped by this madness of bloodlust, Bree was still at a disadvantage. Being smaller and therefore weaker than her male opponents, Bree relied on agility and surprise to conquer her foes. And Jones observed her closely, just to see how well she managed this. He grudgingly noted that Bree claimed the honor of making the first kill, but he then reasoned that the man who now lay dead from a broadsword through his belly was likely some Scouse fishmonger who had stood in utter disbelief as he watched a mad-looking female charge him from the decks of a mythic ship. The girl was dangerous, but it must have been because she didn't appear so at first. But as he continued to follow her progress over the deck of the merchant vessel, he realized there was more to her battle fever. She was good.

Bree was not a villain by nature. She had always been the little girl who brought home injured birds from the edges of the sea lochs so that she might nurse them, and she had made a point to learn the most basic rules of a healer from Petros. But she was of a dual nature. Once she was released into the fight, she became more than just a fighter. She became a berserker. It's the very meaning of the word 'berserk' that kept Bree alive through the battles she had fought in. Granted, she was a strong young creature, quick on her feet and strong of arm. But a strong girl was still at a disadvantage when facing a strong man. It was Bree's wildness in battle that made her such a deadly opponent. She would throw herself at the enemy in wild disregard for her own safety, fighting with a mad delight that aided to confuse and terrify her enemy. Also, the hefty swing of the well-made broadsword often overpowered any other weapon. Cutlass and saber alike failed against the strong Highland blade. And Bree knew how to use that sword. The sword was currently sunk hilt-deep in the belly of a tall Manxman who had lunged at the girl with a pair of boarding axes. Bree had received a nasty swipe across the torso with the edge of one axe, but the pain only maddened her further, and she had thrown all her weight on the sword as she thrust it forward, not even bothering with a war cry as she bit on ribbons of blood. The man died with a look of raged confusion on his heavy face, and Bree, finding her sword trapped between two ribs, was brought to the deck with him. She instantly abandoned her attempts to regain her sword, rolling onto her back to see another man, his face heavily scarred and whiskered, bearing down on her with a marlinspike. Acting quickly, Bree shifted all her weight to her right side, feeling the marlinspike graze her jerkin. She hooked her fingers into the man's jacket collar, using him like a ladder and pulling herself upright. Then she noticed the badge on the man's sleeve. A wild cry ripped from her throat as her grip transferred from his collar to his face. The man, still grasping the marlinspike, began to blindly thrust it at the wild girl as her fingers clawed at his face. Her thumbs found his eyes and dug in savagely. A strangled groan came from the man as his left eye tore free and his right seemed to drive back into his skull. Bree drove the blinded man to his knees, driving her palm into his face over and over again. Blood spurted from the man's eye sockets and mouth, spraying

Bree's face an hands as she continued to pummel him. Then she abruptly stopped when the man went limp. The marlinspike had turned in his hand and driven into his chest. Bree dropped the heavy corpse to the deck ad turned her attention back to her sword, her eyes red with wrath. Jones had witnessed this strange display of savagery with cool interest, knowing there had to be some reason for it. The girl had made a point of lengthening the man's death, and had done so with evident relish. He made a mental note to check the corpse of the man after the survivors had been press ganged or sent to the depths. He turned his attention to the other members of his crew, noting with interest that some of their own ferocity gradually lessened over the course of their servitude. The heart had gone out of the fight, and it was pure muscle memory for them now.

Koleniko was cornered by two well-armed Welshmen, and was fending them both off with wild strokes of his curved blade. He need not have feared death, but he had seen some of his mates horribly mutilated by a mortal blade and laid up in their hammocks for days with racking agony, and he did not relish the thought of such a wound. So he looked past his two attackers, seeing the broadsword whirling about seemingly without a wielder, save for a small blaze of pale yellow as the girl's braids marked her position. He called out, addressing the girl and Clanker, who was nearby, "Mates! Lend a hand, mates, they've got me boxed in!"

Bree and Clanker both turned as one, Clanker (who was quite fond of Koleniko, as he was relatively fond of anyone who disliked Jimmylegs) running forward without any hesitation, his chain shot singing through the air. Bree followed after, though it was more from instinct and adrenaline than any sort of loyalty. She need not have hurried. Clanker's weapon had already slain one Welshman, wrapping about his neck and killing him instantly. The corpse lurched forward, careening into Koleniko, who was shoved roughly against the taffrail. His arms swung wildly as he fought for balance, and with a despairing, almost comical cry he fell backwards.

Bree grazed past the second Welshman with a decisive sideways slice of her sword, leaving him with a considerable gash through his torso, which left him to be finished off by a gloating Penrod. Clanker was mimicking her now, running to Koleniko's aid. The coxswain was barely hanging onto the side, his claws dug into the timbers. Bree, noting the triangular fins of sharks drawn by the carnage circling below, reached down, gripping firmly onto his arm and heaving up. Clanker seized onto her shoulders, pulling her back and propelling both the girl and the coxswain backwards with such unwarranted force, they all three fell in a heap on the deck. Bree gave out a startled cry of pain. She was sandwiched between Clanker, who's hard-muscled chest was hardly a cushioning for her back, and Koleniko, who's shoulder spikes had driven into her cheek and neck.

The Yorkshireman leaped to his feet, dragging some of Bree's flesh along with him and leaving five sizeable spikes embedded in her rapidly swelling face. Clanker, who was somewhat stunned from having the combined weight of a girl who was far from sylph-like and a sturdy Yorkshire sailor atop him, did not seem to care or even notice that Bree was not shifting her weight from him. But eventually, as she writhed in agony, she rolled off of him and he gingerly sat up, rubbing his head. The battle was pretty well finished, with only a handful of survivors who had surrendered willingly. The quarterdeck was slippery with blood and grime, and the moans of the surviving wounded were the only sounds to be heard.

Well…their moans and Bree's squeak-like cries of pain as she vainly attempted to pull the poisoned barbs from her cheek. It was odd that it was paining her so terribly, considering she had a nasty wound from a boarding axe across her torso. But as in the mind of a child, the mere knowledge that something was stuck fast in her skin caused the pain to seem vastly exaggerated.

Clanker had managed to peel himself from the deck, checking his hat and noting ruefully that the brim had been badly crumpled. He looked over at the girl, quirking a barnacled brow, "Ye sound like a syphilitic humpback, lass. What ails ye?"

Bree, still writhing in a melodramatic fashion and clawing at her swelling cheeks, didn't answer, and Clanker forcibly grabbed hold of her wrists and dragged her to her feet. He inspected the spikes grimly, then patted her on the shoulder, "Ye'll mend…I'll wager."

Bree whimpered as he tweaked her chin a bit too roughly, but quieted considerably when she heard the guffaws and jeering voices directed at her. She was then very angry at herself. Aye, the tough little Scots girl, the one who fancied herself brave…crying because of a few pricklies in her cheek. But they stung abominably, and she was afraid that her eyes would swell shut and she might never see again.

She was so preoccupied with the pain and the attempt to overcome it that she did not notice the silence on deck, broken only by that rhythmic slide and hammer of brittle spine on wood. She was grasping at one of the spikes in an attempt to pull it out when she felt a slimy touch about her neck. She hunched her shoulders up in an involuntary act of revulsion, and slowly turned, wincing as Jones' pipe smoke blew in her face, causing her eyes (already watering and puffy from the barbs) to sting to a higher degree.

"Weel, naow…" She felt her fists clench at the sound of his voice. Absurdly, she felt her entire body become fidgety, all of her hatred transformed into useless energy that coursed through her disoriented limbs. She bit her tongue as the voice continued to pry at her.

"Ye fought well enoo, lass…noo that I care much for some of yer…techniques." He motioned to the side and Bree could make out a damp outline of the man she had killed with the marlinspike. She snorted slightly, which only caused her eyes to water again as her nose protested violently.

"The gentleman's death seemed tae give ye a guid deal of pleasure," Jones continued, his voice oily with condescension and scorn, "Enlighten yer mates. Mayhap they'd like tae know what it was ye held agin that man tae send ye intae sich a fury."

Bree knew why he was doing this. He had been taken aback by her battle-fever, something she had always been plagued with and which had cost her dearly more than once. He was trying to twist at her, to convince her that this loss of control was a fault…and she knew it was. But she squared her shoulders, fighting the pain as she answered in a slurred voice, her tongue swelled slightly as a result of the poison in her skin and mouth, "Check 'is coat…it'll have a badge on it. If ye're a true Scotsman ye'd unnerstand!"

Jones limped regally toward the corpse, kicking it over and peering down at the great-coat's sleeve, spying a badge. He felt his beard curl with sudden anger, unconsciously succumbing to that old mortal emotion of loyalty to one's homeland. It was a secret symbol, but well-known to certain individuals, such as himself. It was a small withered thistle, impaled on the long thorn of a flourishing rose.

"I wasnae aware the cult o' Bonnie Prince Charlie was still alive…" His voice was slightly strained, and when he turned his eyes back to the girl, she could see that he was as enraged as she. For a moment this made her think better of him…but then she hated any similarity between herself and the monster her hatred was directed against. Another unfortunate consequence of being born of the same stock and the same northern blood.

She spat at his feet, "Prince Charles be damned! I fight for Clan Donald." Jones flicked his gaze down to her waist, taking the time to look closely at the sash about her waist. He had known it to be a tartan, but it was so faded and his interest was so dulled that he had not identified the clan this girl belonged to. Indeed, she was of the MacDonald tribe. Jones himself was a member of the Gunn clan, and he found it amusing that there was no apparent feud between their clans. If this girl was so true to her clan, she might have been more entertaining should he claim to be a MacLeod.

He bent slightly, gripping onto the girl's sash with his claw, pulling her closer to him, his eyes tracing up from the tartan to her face. It was swelling substantially, one of her eyes already forced shut. He smiled grimly, shaking his head at her, "Didnae think that face could get worse…"

She was still struggling to open her mouth to retort, her tongue growing more and more useless, when Jones turned from her, motioning to Jimmylegs, "Back tae the _Dutchman_…send the girl to my cabin. There's words left tae be said."

Bree sat down heavily, hesitantly touching her throbbing cheek, not hearing this last bit, and giving a surprised little squeak when the bosun seized her by the nape of her neck, hissing with cruel anticipation, "If we're lucky, we won't have to look at that ugly mug o' yers once Cap'n's done wiv ye. He'll rip it off, haha!"


	8. Wildcat

Chapter VIII

Wildcat

"Ye push the rules of nature, girl."

The pulsing of her head deadened the sound of his voice, and for a while she simply crouched with one hand to her face and the other to her side, nursing the wound from the boarding axe. When she could no longer ignore his voice, she lifted her head slightly, involuntary tears of pain screening her eyes as she nursed her swollen face. "Please, Cap'n...I didn't do anything wrong, an' I'm tired -"

"Ye're tired? Tired or sommat else?" he rejoined, swooping into her line of vision with a strangely graceful jerk of his head, his claw pressing to her chin. Her flesh was so afire with pain that she only felt the pressure of his grip, but not the sharpness. But she was ashamed to feel hot tears pop from the corners of her eyes, big fat pearls of gritty salt water, ugly as the cheeks they soiled.

Jones watched those tears in triumphant silence. She was not broken, at least no more than most spirits like hers would be. She was a little girl with pricklies in her cheek, crying for her mother or her nanny to pull them out. He lifted his claw, pressing it to the spines and pushing down, _hard_. The girl's whimpers turned to a long moaning cry as she struggled to move away from him, her head bobbling on her neck madly. Pus and foamy blood welled around the spines in her bloating cheek, and Jones kept applying pressure until the girl's legs gave out and she sobbed out in barely coherent tones, "Please…please, stop…stop, I…be…heg you…"

He released her, and she landed on her knees, curling into herself and clutching her cheek, her mouth open but no noise coming from her lungs, her pain too disabling. Jones regarded her with something that might have been mistaken for pity, but was actually amusement, "Ye're as human as the rest, lass…yet ye still dinnae bend a knee…at least in the figurative sense," he added in mockery.

There was no answer but her snuffling weeping, but he waited patiently, and he knew that she knew he was waiting. She gained enough control of her voice to hiss out in halting breaths, interrupted by teary hiccups, "Ye killed…killed the crew…took my freedom…stole death…death from me…ye 'spect anyone tae bend a knee to that?"

He chuckled deep in his throat, approval in his voice, "That's the way tae look at it, girl. Reason I kept ye aboard - not many men would say as much. Women tend tae be stronger, because they dinnae think ahead."

The pain in her face still overpowered the pain in the back of Bree's neck as she was hauled back up to eye level with Jones. He smiled at her, almost benignly, a glimmer of curiosity evident in his snow-hued eyes.

"A girl…noo unheard of, but rare tae be sae public with yer tender sex."

Bree avoided his eyes, biting her lip and instantly regretting it as fresh pain shot across her cheek. She didn't speak until prompted by a sharp squeeze to her neck, "Ain't unheard of…but happens…sometimes…"

"How? An' why?"

In spite of her pain, Bree's head yanked up in surprise to look at her inquisitor. Did he really care about her past? He would tear it apart and use everything he could to cause her more and more agony of soul, would mock her for becoming what she was…but she didn't really care, didn't really have any shame regarding her past. Most of it wasn't pretty, but there was nothing spectacular to her story. But then, what gave him the right to know such things?

"Whaler…I got clumsy, let a boy catch me at the head. Promised him my earnings if he'd clam up, but he thought he'd get more if'n he told the captain. So he did." A wry smile twisted her swollen lips, "No one believed 'im at first. They thought I was a eunuch, til they…" Then she fell silent, squashing back that unpleasant remembrance.

Jones listened with a vague expression, but he drank every word in. She _was_ remarkably boyish, sadly ugly for a female but not unduly ugly in the generic sense of the word. He could imagine the inspection she must have undergone. But something told him that she was still a maid, even before he asked.

"So ye were raped?"

Her swollen cheek bulged as her teeth scraped together and her nostrils flared, "Hellfire, no! Not a one of 'em ever sae much as said sich things!" Her Highland accent grew thicker, signaling her anger. Jones chuckled, nodding, "Pretty story, then. They all liked ye sae much that they let ye alone?"

Bree spat out a glob of mucus in answer, aiming it at Jones' coat front but falling miserably short as she swallowed back a grunt of pain. She nodded, lowering her eyes, "Aye…aye, they let me stay. It's not likeI wasn't any use to 'em. I had the sharpest eyes an' was small enough to get in the tun. I always got the last bits of the spermaceti." She smiled a bit when she employed the last word, a large word she was always very proud of having in her vocabulary - though most everyone knew it.

Jones let this information pass with a bored expression, thoroughly unimpressed. Though it did say something for the girl's ability if her captain opted to keep her aboard - whaler or no. What she lacked in size and strength she made up for in energy. And savagery, so it seemed. Such a womanly attribute, all emotion, all passion.

"But one wonders how ye chose this life, Miss Bree."

She shrugged damply, nursing her gums with an increasingly thickening tongue. She wasn't meeting his gaze. She was a bad liar, unable to hide her emotions well - every thought was visible in her face.

"Tell me the tale, lass." And when his claw pressed irresistibly to her jaw, lifting her eye level, he saw that there was a filmy cover of pain in her eyes. Sad stories…there were so many of them at sea.

"Papa left to go piratin,' and Mama stayed back at home on Skye with me. The loyalists…they chased us out an' Mama took me on a ship for Tortuga."

A true highlander, then. It figured, Jones thought. Her accent was so muddled from her years at sea, but he was now more aware of the thick northern sigh in her words.

"And from Tortuga ye joined up? No whorin' for you?"

She stiffened, "Mama said to do anythin' but whorin,' so I went piratin' instead."

"How did she justify her own whorin,' then?"

Somehow this riled the girl enough to overcome the pain in her face. She stretched her neck out and gave Jones' arm a hard, sharp bite. Though it was the arm covered in the scaled crab-shell, she had managed to bite at a joint, and her teeth were young teeth, and sharper. Jones hissed in annoyance, drawing his arm back, then thrusting it out again to catch the girl a hefty jab to the stomach. She fell back heavily, skidding on her backside before collapsing onto her side with a labored exhale, her good eye bugged out with pain.

Jones gave his shoulder a peevish shrug, as though shaking off the pain from her bite. She had sharp little teeth, like a puppy's. That was all she was, really - a puppy, or some bedraggled little feral kitten, wet and with a temper larger than her size. Humorous…to a point.

"Ye dinnae give up, do ye, lass?" He took a step closer to her. She was slowly regaining her vision and her balance, rising to her feet with an awkward twist of her knees. She certainly had an unhealthy rebellious nature. She seemed the type that ignored the fear of pain in favor of her rage. A berserker spirit…in a squat little Highland girl's body.

"Clan Donald…ye come from a line of Northern giants, eh? What caused ye tae shrink down sae much?"

She shook her head in an attempt to clear it, planting her feet more firmly in case he should strike her again. She put her hands on her hips in an attempt to look more menacing, or at least more worthy of Clan Donald, "I ain't that small. No smaller'n most boys at sea. An' I can outwork 'em all!"

Jones looked at the broad surface of her shoulders as she said this. Though a strong girl was still often weaker than a strong boy, this girl looked to be the type that worked towards building up her strength and stamina, training herself to push past the limits of her sex. She had learned how to become a boy.

But she was still a girl…

"What does yer mama think of ye naow?"

Bree's face was a direct window to her emotions and thoughts. She was no good at hiding anything - too honest and too passionate. The question stung her with memories. She lowered her eyes and shook her head - a calm sorrow, not a raging grief. Jones had never felt that kind of sorrow before.

"She's dead. Been dead for a long time."

"An' that liddle trinket of hers? All she left ye?"

Bree nodded simply. Even the mention of her lost heirloom did not rouse her. Strange to see such a stormy little heart meek with the softer emotions of quiet sadness or thoughtful memory.

"How did she die?"

Bree raised her eyes this time, instantly on the defensive again. His face showed nothing at all - and that was what he felt, surely. He didn't care. He might not even find it all that funny. He just viewed her as…_there! _Just a heap of flesh in front of him!

"Why should ye care? I ain't tellin' ye any more, 'cause it ain't none o' yer business! Nothin' of mine is yers! Not my soul, not my service, an' by hellfire not my story!"

This outburst seemed neither to amuse or to anger Jones. He simply looked at her, then nodded, speaking evenly and almost civilly, "Indeed. That story isnae any different from a thousand others at sea. Just as you, lass, are nae different from the other souls aboard this vessel. And like them all, ye'll soon find that ye cannae remember where ye came from, or what ye were called, or how ye got here. Ye'll fade intae the slime. Ye'll end."

Bree's mouth was trembling noticeably with the effort to keep it shut. Her cheek, now swollen to twice its normal size, was also quivering with emotion, and the quills wobbled crazily. But she surprisingly kept control of her voice, though her fists were clenched like mussel shells at her sides. How she wished she had a witty tongue to shoot back some stinging reply! But alas…she was too angry, too afraid and too _stupid_ to say anything at all.

Jones sensed this and let the uncomfortable silence drag on for a while more. He smiled cruelly at the speechless girl, making a gesture with his hand in a mocking way, "Well, Miss Bree, if ye've naught t'say tae that, ye'd best find yer way tae yer quarters. Ye seem t'have suffered some wound to yer side, an' ye'll noo get any rest from yer work tomorrow."

Bree's face was white with frustration, and she did not move for a few seconds. Then she turned stiffly, limping towards the door and still clenching her fists as though she sought to break her own hands.

Jones was not surprised when she turned before opening the door, her eyes the only thing visible from the shadows. They were gleaming wet with tears of rage and pain, but also with that immature fire of wild youth. And her voice was strangely calm, for all her obvious agitation.

"I dinnae know what would be worse…tae be me forgettin' who I am, or tae be you, rememberin' every day _just_ who y'are."

She let the door fall shut behind her, and instantly let the tears come fast and cruel, as she half-ran half-stumbled to the hatchway, her chest tight with an unhealthy mixture of disappointment and embarrassment. It just wasn't fair!

Jones retired to his bench, shaking his head in silent mirth. He had faced spirits like hers before, but never to this degree of pride and wildness, which came from her female tendencies of unbridled passion without the training of thought. Against his cold calculation and his own hidden passions of grief and rage, which he had a close enough handle on after so many years, she was playing a losing game. It just wasn't fair.


End file.
